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KILLYKINICK 


By MARY T^^^^^GAMAN 

tl 

Author of 

“Billy Boy,” “The Secret of Pocomoke,”' 
“White Eagle,” “Tommy 
Travers,” etc. 




Wi€ M/(£ SSmilA 

NOTRE DAME, IND., U. S. A. 


Copyright, 1917 

By D. E HUDvSON, C. S. C. 



©Cl. A 4 79 3 9 S) 



KILLYKINICK. 


I. — The: “Left Overs.” 

It was the week after Commencement. 
The corridors, class-rooms, and study hall 
of Saint Andrew’s stretched in dim, silent 
vistas; over the tennis court and the play- 
ground there brooded a dead calm; the 
field, scene of so many strenuous struggles, 
lay bare and still in the summer sunlight; 
the quadrangle, that so lately had rung to 
parting cheer and “yell,” might have been 
a cloister for midnight ghosts to walk. The 
only sign or sound of life came from the 
open archways of the Gym, where the “left 
overs” (as the boys who for various reasons 
had been obliged to summer at Saint 
Andrew’s) were working off the steam con- 
densed, as Jim Norris declared, to the 
“busting” point by the last seven days. 

A city-bound college has its limitartions^ 
and vacation at Saint Andrew’s promised 
to be a very dull affair indeed. The “left 
overs” had tried everything to kill time. 


KILLYKINICK 


At present their efforts seemed bent on kill- 
ing themselves; for Jim Norris and Dud 
Fielding, sturdy fellows of fourteen, were 
doing stunts on the flying trapeze worthy of 
professional acrobats; while Dan Dolan, 
swinging from a high bar, was urging little 
Fred Neville to a precarious poise on his 
shoulder. 

Freddy was what may be called a per- 
ennial “left over.” He had been the “kid” 
of Saint Andrew’s since he was five years 
old, when his widowed father had left him 
in a priestly uncle’s care, and had disap- 
peared no one knew how or where. And as 
Uncle Tom’s chosen path lay along hard, 
lofty ways that small boys could not follow, 
Fred had been placed by special privilege 
in Saint Andrew’s to grow up into a happy 
boyhood, the pet and plaything of the 
house. He was eleven now, with the fair 
face and golden hair of his dead girl-mother, 
and brown eyes that had a boyish sparkle 
all their own. 

They looked up dubiously at Dan now, — 
“daring Dan,” who for the last year had 
been Freddy’s especial chum; and to be 
long-legged, sandy-haired, freckle-nosed 
Dan’s chum was an honor indeed for a 


2 


KILLYKINICK 


small boy of eleven. Dan wore frayed col- 
lars and jackets much too small for him ; his 
shoes were stubby-toed and often patched ; 
he made pocket money in various ways, by 
“fagging” and odd jobbing for the big 
boys of the college. But he led the classes 
and games 'of the Prep with equal success; 
and even now the Latin class medal was 
swinging from the breast of his shabby 
jacket. 

Dan had been a newsboy in very early 
youth; but, after a stormy and often 
broken passage through the parochial 
school, he had won a scholarship at Saint 
Andrew’s over all competitors. 

“An’ ye’ll be the fool to take it,” Aunt 
Winny had said when he brought the news 
home to the little attic rooms where she did 
tailor’s finishing, and took care of Dan as 
well as a crippled old grandaunt could. 
“With all them fine gentlemen’s sons look- 
ing down on ye for a beggar ! *’ 

“Let them look,” Dan had said philo- 
sophically. “Looks don’t hurt. Aunt Win. 
It’s my chance and I’m going to take it.” 

And he was taking it bravely when poor 
Aunt Win’s rheumatic knees broke down 
utterly, and she had to go to the “Little 


KILLYKINICK 


Sisters,” leaving Dan to summer with the 
other “left overs” at Saint Andrew’s. 

“Swing up,” he repeated, stretching a 
sturdy hand to Fred. “Don’t be a sissy. 
One foot on each of my shoulders, and 
catch on to the bar above my head. That 
will steady you.” 

Freddy hesitated. It was rather a lofty 
height for one of his size. 

“ You can’t hold me,” he said. “ I’m too 
heavy.” 

“Too heavy!” repeated Dan, laughing 
down on the slender, dapper little figure at 
his feet. “Gee whilakins, I wouldn’t even 
feel you!” 

This was too much for any eleven-year- 
old to stand. Freddy was not very well. 
Brother Timothy had been dosing him for 
a week or more, and these long hot summer 
days made his legs feel queer and his head 
dizzy. It was rather hard sometimes to 
keep up with Dan, who was making the 
most of his holiday, as he did of everything 
that came in his way. Freddy was follow- 
ing him loyally, in spite of the creeps and 
chills that betrayed malaria. But now his 
brown eyes hashed fire. 

“You’re a big brag, Dan Dolan!” he 

[4] 


KILLYKINICK 


said, stung by such a taunt at his size and 
weight. “Just you try me!” 

And, catching Dan’s hand, he made a 
spring to his waist and a reckless scramble 
to his shoulders. 

“Hooray!” said Dan, cheerily. “Steady 
now, and hold on to the bar!” 

“Do you feel me?” asked Fred, pressing 
down with all his small weight on the 
sturdy figure beneath him. 

“A mite!” answered Dan. “Sort of like 
a mosquito had lit on me up there.” 

“ Do you fell me now? ” said Fred, bring- 
ing his heels down with a dig. 

“Look out now!” cried Dan, sharply. 
“Don’t try dancing a jig up there. Hold 
to the bar.” 

But the warning came too late. The last 
move was too much for the half-sick boy 
Freddy’s head began to turn, his legs gave 
way — he reeled down to the floor, and, 
white and senseless, lay at Dan’s feet. 

In the big, book-lined study beyond the 
quadrangle. Father Regan was settling final 
accounts prior to the series of “retreats” 
he had promised for the summer; while 
Brother Bart, ruddy and wrinkled as a. 

[5] 


KILLYKINICK 

winter apple, “straightened up,” — gather- 
ing waste paper and pamphlets as his 
superior cast them aside, dusting book- 
shelves and mantel, casting the while many 
an anxious, watchful glance through the 
open window. The boys were altogether 
too quiet this morning. Brother Bart dis- 
trusted boyish quiet. For the “Laddie,” 
as he had called Freddy since the tiny boy 
had been placed six years ago in his special 
care, was the idol of the good man’s heart. 
He had washed and dressed and tended 
him in those early years with almost a 
woman’s tenderness, and was watching 
with jealous anxiety as Laddie turned from 
childish ways into paths beyond his care. 
Dan Dolan was Brother Bart’s especial 
fear, — Dan Dolan, who belonged to the 
rough outside world from which Laddie had 
been shielded; Dan Dolan, who, despite 
tickets and medals. Brother Bart felt was 
no mate for a little gentleman like his boy. 

“They’re quarely still this morning,” he 
said at last, giving voice to his fear. “I’m 
thinking they are at no good.” 

“Who?” asked Father Regan, looking 
up from the letter he was reading. 

“The boys,” answered Brother Bart, — 

[6] 


KILLYKINICK 


the four of them that was left over with 
us.” 

“Four of them?” repeated the Father, 
who, with the closing of the schools, had 
felt the burden of his responsibilities drop. 
“True, true! I quite forgot we have four 
boys with us. It must be dull for the poor 
fellows.” 

“Dull!” echoed Brother Bart, grimly, — 
“dull is it, yer reverence? It’s in. some 
divilment they are from morning until 
night. There’s no rule for vacation days,, 
as Mr. Linton says; and so the four of 
them are running wild as red Indians, up 
in the bell tower, and in the ice pond 
that’s six feet deep with black water, and 
scampering over the highest ledge of the 
dormitory roof, till my heart nearly leaps 
from my mouth.” 

“Poor fellows!” said Father Regan, 
indulgently. “ It’s hard on them, of course. 
Let me see! Colonel Fielding and his wife 
are in the Philippines, I remember, and 
asked to leave Dudley with us; and Judge 
Norris couldn’t take Will with him to 
Japan; and there’s our own little Fred of 
course, — we always have him; and—” 

“That dare-devil of a Dan Dolan, that’s 


KILLYKINICK 


the worst of all!” burst forth Brother Bart, 
“It’s for me sins he was left here, I know; 
with the Laddie following everywhere he 
leads, like he was bewitched.” 

“Poor Danny! Aren’t you a little hard 
on him, Brother Bart?” was the smiling 
question. 

“Sure I am, I am, — God forgive me for 
that same!” answered Brother Bart, peni- 
tently. “But I’m no saint like the rest of 
ye; and Laddie crept into me heart six 
years ago, and I can’t put him out. Wild 
Dan Dolan is no fit mate for him.” 

“Why not?” asked Father Regan, 
gravely, though there was a quizzical 
gleam in his eye. 

‘ ‘ Sure, because — because — ’ ’ hesitated 
Brother Bart, rather staggered by the 
question. “Sure ye know yerself. Father.” 

“No, I don’t,” was the calm reply. 
“Dan may be wild and mischievous — a. 
little rough perhaps, poor boy! — but he 
will do Freddy no harm. He is a bright, 
honest, manly fellow, making a brave 
fight against odds that are hard to face;, 
and we must give him his chance. Brother 
Bart.' I promised his good old aunt, who 
was broken-hearted at leaving him, that 
[8] 


KILLYKINICK 


I would do all I could for her friendless, 
homeless boy. As for mischief — well, I 
rather like a spice of mischief at his age. 
It is a sign of good health, body and soul. 
But we must try to give it a safer outlet 
than roofs and bell towers,” he added 
thoughtfully, “bet me see! If we could 
send our ‘left overs ’ some place where 
they could have more freedom. Why — 
why, now that I think of it” (the speaker’s 
grave face brightened as he took up the 
letter he had been reading), ‘‘maybe there’s 
a chance for them right here. Father Tom 
Rayburn has just written me that Freddy 
has fallen heir to some queer old place on 
the New England coast. It belonged to 
his mother’s great-uncle, an old whaling 
captain, who lived there after an eccentric 
fashion of his own. It seems that his ship 
was stranded on this island more than 
fifty years ago, and he fixed up the wreck, 
and lived there until his death this past 
month. The place has no value. Father 
Tom thinks; but he spent two of the 
j oiliest summers of his own boyhood with 
old Captain Kane at Killykinick.” 

‘‘ Killykinick?” echoed Brother Bart. 
‘‘That sound Irish, Father.” 


KILLYKINICK 


“ It does,” laughed Father Regan. ” Per- 
haps the old captain was an Irishman. At 
any rate, there he lived, showing a light 
every night at his masthead to wain other 
ships off,— which was quite unnecessary of 
course, as the government attends to all 
such matters now.” 

‘‘It must be a quare sort of a place,” 
said Brother Bart, doubtfully. “But it 
might do the Laddie good to get a whiff of 
the salt air and a swim in the sea. He isn’t 
well. Brother Timothy says, and as every- 
one can see. He has a touch of the fever 
every day; and as for weight, Dan Dolan 
would make two of him. And his mother 
died before she was five and twenty. God’s 
holy will be done!” Brother Bart’s voice 
broke at the words. “But I’m thinking 
Laddie isn’t long for this world. Father. 
There’s an angel-look in his face that I 
don’t like to see.” And the old Brother 
shook his head lugubriously. 

Father Regan laughed. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that! I’ve 
seen plenty of just such angels. Brother 
Bart, and they grew up into very hardy, 
mortal men, who had to scuffle their way 
through life like the rest of us. But' Freddy 


KILLYKINICK 


is looking a little peaked of late, as I 
noticed on Commencement Day. I think 
that, as you say, a breath of salt air would 
be good for him. We might send all four 
off together to this place of his.” 

“Is it Dan Dolan with the rest?” asked 
Brother Bart, in dismay. 

“Why, of course! We couldn’t keep 
poor Dan here all alone,” was the answer. 

“He’ll have Laddie climbing the rocks 
and swimming the seas like — like a wild 
Indian,” said the good man, despairingly. 

“What! That angel boy of yours, 
Brother Bart?” laughed the priest. 

“Aye, aye!” answered the good Brother. 
“I’m not denying that Laddie has a wild 
streak in him. It came from his poor young 
father, I suppose. Arrah! has there never 
been word or sign from him. Father?” 
queried Brother Bart, sorrowfully. 

“Never,” was the grave reply, — “not 
since he disappeared so strangely six years 
ago. I presume he is dead. He had been 
rather a wild young fellow; but after his 
wife’s death he changed completely, re- 
proached himself for having, as he said, 
broken her heart, and got some morbid 
notion of not being a fit father for his 


KILLYKINICK 


child. He had lost his faith and was 
altogether unbalanced, poor man ! Luckily, 
Freddy inherits a fortune from his mother, 
and is well provided for; and now comes 
this other heritage from the old great- 
uncle — Killy kinick. I really think — O God 
bless me! What is the matter?” asked 
the speaker, turning with a start, as, 
reckless of rules and reverence, two white- 
faced boys burst unannounced into the 
room. 

“It’s — it’s —it’s Freddy Neville, Father!” 
panted Jim Norris. 

“Laddie, — my Laddie! What’s come to 
him?” cried Brother Bart. 

“He’s tumbled off the high bar,” gasped 
Dud Fielding, “and he is lying all white 
and still, and — ^and dead. Father!” 


KILLYKINICK 


II. — OivD Top. 

"fHERE was a hurried rush to the scene of 
accident; but first aid to the injured had 
already been rendered. Freddy lay on the 
Gym floor, pillowed on Dan’s jacket, and 
reviving under the ministration of a sturdy 
hand and a very wet and grimy pocket- 
handkerchief. 

“What did you go tumbling off like 
that for?’’ asked Dan indignantly, as the 
“angel eyes’’ of his patient opened. 

“Don’t know,’’ murmured Freddy, 
faintly. 

“I told you to stand steady, and you 
didn’t, — you jumped!” said Dan. 

“So — so you’d feel me,” answered Fred, 
memory returning as the darkness began 
to brighten, and Brother Bart and Brother 
Timothy and several other anxious faces 
started out of the breaking clouds. “But 
I’m not hurt, — I’m not hurt a bit. Brother 
Bart.” 

“Blessed be God for that same!” cried 
the good Brother, brokenly, as, after close 
examination. Brother Timothy agreed to 


KILLYKINICK 


this opinion. “And it wasn’t the fault of 
the rapscallions wid ye that ye’re not killed 
outright. To be swinging like monkeys 
from a perch, and ye half sick and light- 
headed! Put him in the bed, Brother 
Timothy; and keep him^ there till we see 
what comes of this.’’ 

So Freddy was put to bed in the dim 
quiet of the infirmary, to watch develop- 
ments. Brother Timothy gave him , an old- 
fashioned “draught,’’ and he went to sleep 
most comfortably. He woke up feeling 
very well indeed, to enjoy an appetizing 
repast of chicken broth and custard. But 
when this went on for two days, Freddy 
began to grow restless. 

Infirmary life was very well in school 
time; indeed, when there were several 
other patients not too sick to share its 
luxuries, it proved rather a pleasant break 
in the routine of class-room and study- 
hall. In fact, a late epidemic of measles 
that filled every bed had been a “lark’’ 
beyond Brother Timothy’s suppression. 
But the infirmary in vacation, with no 
chance for the pillow fights that had made 
the “measles’’ so hilarious, with no boy in 
the next bed to exchange confidences and 

[ 14] 


KILLYKINICK 


reminiscences, with no cheery shouts and 
yells rising from the playground and quad- 
rangle, with only the long stretch of bare,, 
spotless rooms, white cots, and Brother 
Timothy rolling pills in the “doctor shop,” 
the infirmary was dull and dready indeed. 

“Can’t I get up to-day. Brother?” 
asked Freddy on the third morning, as- 
Brother Timothy took away a breakfast 
tray cleared to the last crumb of toast. 

“No,” replied the Brother,, who from 
long dealing with small boys had acquired 
the stony calm of a desert sphinx. Beneath 
it he was a gentle, patient, wise old saint, 
who watched and prayed over his patients 
in a way they little guessed. “No, you 
can’t.” 

“Gee!” said Freddy, with a rebellious 
kick at the counterpane. “The bump on 
my head is gone, and Fm not sick at 
all.’^ 

“We’re not so sure of that,” answered 
Brother Tim. “You’ve had temperature.” 

“What’s ‘temperature’?” asked Freddy, 
roused with interest. 

“Never mind what it is, but you’ll have 
to stay here till it goes,” answered Brother 
Tim, with decision. 


KILLYKINICK 


And Freddy could only lay back on his 
pillows in hopeless gloom, watching the 
shadows of the big elm by his window 
dickering over curtain and coverlet. The 
great elm — or “Old Top,” as it had been 
affectionately called by generations of 
students— was the pride of the college 
grounds. Many a newcomer felt his heart 
warm to his strange surroundings when he 
found the name of father or grandfather 
cut into the rough bark, where men who 
had made later marks on history’s page 
had left youthful sign manual. More than 
once the growth of the college buildings 
had threatened to encroach upon Old Top; 
but the big elm held its prior claim, and 
new dormitory or infirmary was set back 
that it might rule with kingly right in its 
historic place. 

Many were the stories and legends of 
which Old Top was the hero. In the “great 
fire” its boughs had proven a ladder of 
safety before modern “escapes” were 
known. Civil -War veterans told of hunted 
scouts hiding, all unknown to the Fathers, 
in its spreading branches; while the 
students’ larks and frolics to which it 
had lent indulgent ear were ancient his- 

[i6] 


KILLYKINICK 


tory at many a grandfather’s fireside. 

But, like all things earthly, the big tree 
was growing old; a barbed wire fencing 
surrounded the aging trunk, and effectively 
prohibited climbing the rotten and unsafe 
branches. Even cutting names was for- 
bidden. Freddy had been the last allowed, 
as the “kid” of the house, to put his 
initials beneath his fathers. It had been 
quite an occasion, his eleventh birthday. 
There had been a party (Freddy always 
had ten dollars to give a party on his 
birthday) ; and then, surrounded by his 
guests, still gratefully appreciative of un- 
limited ice cream and strawberries, he had 
carefully cut “F. W. N. 19 — beneath the 
same signature of twenty years ago. It 
was then too hilarious an occasion for sad 
reflection ; but, lying alone in the infirmary 
to-day, Freddy’s memories took doleful 
form as he recalled the “F. W. N.” above 
his own, and began to think of the father 
who had vanished so utterly from his 
young life. 

He had only the vaguest recollection of 
a tall, handsome “daddy” who had tossed 
him up in his arms and frolicked and 
laughed with him in a very dim, early 

[17] 


KILLYKINICK 


youth. He could recall more clearly the 
stern, silent man of later years, of whom 
the five-year-boy had been a little afraid. 
And he retained a vivid memory of one 
bewildering evening in the dusky parlor 
of Saint Andrew’s when a shaking, low 
voiced father had held him tight to his 
breast for one startling moment, and then 
whispered hoarsely in his ear, “Good-bye, 
my little son, — good-bye forever!’’ It 
was very sad, as Freddy realized to-day 
(he had never considered the matter 
seriously before),— very sad to have a 
father bid you good-bye forever. And to 
have your mother dead, too, — such a 
lovely mother! Freddy had, in his small 
trunk, a picture of her that was as pretty 
as any of the angels on the chapel windows. 
And now he had “temperature,’’ and 
maybe he was going to die, too, like some 
of those very good little boys of whom 
Father Martin read aloud on Sundays. 

Freddy’s spirits were sinking into a sun- 
less gloom, when suddenly there came a 
whistle through the open window, — a 
whistle that made him start up breathless 
on his pillow. For only one boy in Saint 
Andrew’s could achieve that clear high 

[ i8] 


KILLYKINICK 


note. It was Dan Dolan calling, — but 
how, where? Freddy’s window was four 
stories high, without porch or fire escape, 
and that whistle was almost in his ear. 
He pursed up his trembling lips and 
whistled back. 

“Hi!” came a cautious voice, and the 
leafy shadows of Old Top waved violently. 
“You’re there, are you? Brother Tim 
around?” 

“No,” answered Freddy. 

“Then I’ll swing in for a minute.” 
And, with another wild shake of Old Top, 
Dan bestrode the window ledge,^ — a most 
cheery-looking Dan, grinning broadly. 

“How^ — how did you get up?” asked 
Freddy, thinking of the barbed wire 
defences below. 

“Dead easy,” answered Dan. “Just 
swung across from the organ-loft windows. 
They wouldn’t let me come up and see 
you. Brother Bart, the old softy, said 
I’d excite you. What’s the matter, any- , 
how? Is it the tumble — or typhoid?” 

“Neither,” said Fred. “I feel fine, but 
Brother Tim says I’ve got temperature.” 

“What’s that?” asked Dan. 

“I don’t know,” replied Freddy. “You 

[ 19] 


KILLY KIN ICK 


better not come too near, or you may 
catch it.” 

‘‘Pooh, no!” said Dan, who was poised 
easily on his lofty perch. ‘‘I never catch 
anything. But I’ll keep ready for a jump, 
or Brother Tim will catch me, and there 
will be trouble for sure. And as for Brother 
Bart, I don’t know what he’d do if he 
thought I had come near you. Jing! but 
he gave it to me hot and heavy about 
letting you get that tumble! He needn’t. 
I felt bad enough about it already.” 

“Oh, did you, Dan?” asked Fred, ^uite 
overcome by such an admission. 

“Rotten!” was the emphatic answ^er. 

“Couldn’t eat any dinner, though we 
had cherry dumpling. And Brother Bart 
rubbed it in, saying I had killed you. 
Then I got the grumps, and when Dud 
Fielding gave me some of his sass we had 
a knock-out fight that brought Father 
Rector down on us good and strong. I 
♦ tell you it’s been tough lines all around. 
And this is what you call — vacation!” 
concluded Dan, sarcastically. 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Freddy. “The 
tumble didn’t hurt me much. I guess I 
was sort of sick anyhow. And to fight 


KILLYKINICK 


Dud Fielding!” The speaker’s eyes 
sparkled. “Oh, I bet you laid him out, 
Dan!” 

‘‘Didn’t I, though! Shut up one eye, 
and made that Grecian nose of his look 
like a turnip. It ain’t down yet,” answered 
Dan, with satisfaction. “He fired me up 
talking about Aunt Win.” 

“Oh, did he?” asked Freddy, sympa- 
thetically. 

“Yes: said I ought to be ditch-digging 
to keep her out of the poorhouse, instead 
of pushing in with respectable boys here. 
Sometimes I think that myself,” added 
Dan in another tone “But it wasn’t 
any of that blamed plute’s business to 
knock it into me.” 

“But it isn’t true: your aunt isn’t in 
the poorhouse, Dan? ” said Freddy, eagerly. 

“Well, no, not exactly,” answered Dan. 
“But she is with the Little Sisters, which 
is next thing to it. And I ain’t like the 
rest of you, I know; and don’t need Dud 
Fielding to tell me. But just let me get 
a good start and I’ll show folks what 
Dan Dolan can do. I’ll be ready for some- 
thing better than a newsboy or a boot- 
black.” 


KILLYKINICK 


“O Dan, you’ll never be anything like 
that!” said Freddy, in dismay. 

“I have been,” was the frank reply. 
“Given many a good shine for a nickel. 
Could sell more papers than any little 
chap on the street. Was out before day 
on winter mornings to get them hot from 
the press, when I hadn’t turned seven 
years old. But I ain’t going' back to it, — 
no, sir!” Dan’s lips set themselves firmly. 
“I’m on the climb. Maybe I won’t get 
very far, but I’ve got my foot on the ladder. 
I’m going to hold my own against Dud 
Fielding and all his kind, no matter how 
they push; and I told Father Rector that 
yesterday when they were plastering up 
Dud’s eye and nose.” 

“O Dan, you didn’t!” 

“Yes, I did. I was just boiling up, and 
had to bust out, I guess. And when he 
lectured us about being gentlemen, I told 
him I didn’t aim at anything like that. I 
wasn’t made for it, as I knew; but I was 
made to be a man, and I was going to hold 
up like one, and stand no shoving.” 

“O Dan!” gasped Freddy, breathlessly. 
“And— and what did he say?” 

“Nothing,” answered Dan, grimly. 


KILLYKINICK 


'‘But, from the looks Of things, I rather 
guess I’m in for a ticket of leave. That’s 
why I’m up here. Couldn’t go off without 
seeing you, — telling you how sorry I was 
I let you get that fall off my shoulders. 
I oughtn’t to have dared a kid like you 
to fool-tricks like that. I was a big dumb- 
head, and I’d like to kick, myself for it. 
For I think more of you than any other 
boy in the college, little or big, — I surely 
do. And I’ve brought you something, so 
when I*m gone you won’t forget me.” 

And Dan dived into his pocket and 
brought out a round disk of copper about 
the size of a half dollar. It was rimmed 
with silver and engraven with some’ 
foreign crest, and name and date. 

‘‘An old sailor man gave it to me,” said 
Dan, as he reached over to Freddy’s bed 
and handed him the treasure. He was a one- 
legged old chap that used to sit down on 
the wharf sort of dazed and batty, until 
the boys roused him by pelting and hooting 
at him ; and then he’d fire back curse words 
at them that would raise your hair. It was 
mean of them, for he was old and lame and 
sick; and one day I just lit out at a couple 
■of measly little chaps and ducked them 

[23] 


KILLYKINICK 


overboard for their sass. After that we 
were sort of friends, me and old ‘Nutty,’ 
as everyone called him. I’d buy his tobacco 
and beer for him, and give him an old paper 
now and then ; and when he got down and 
out for good Aunt Win made me go for the 
priest for him and see him through. He 
gave me this at the last. He had worn it on 
a string around his neck, and seemed to 
think it was something grand. It’s a medal 
for bravery that the poor old chap had 
won more than forty years ago. Ben 
Wharton offered me a dollar for it to put 
in his museum, but I wouldn’t sell it. It 
seemed sort of mean to sell poor old 
Nutty’s medal. But I’d like to give it to you, 
so you’ll remember me when I’ve gone.”j 
“Oh, but you’re not — not going away, 
Dan!’’ said Freddy. “And I can’t take 
your medal, anyhow. I’d remember you 
without it. You’re the best chum I ever 
had, — the very best. And — and — ’’ 

The speaker broke off, stammering; for 
a second visitor had suddenly appeared at 
his bedside: Father Regan ^ who had 
entered the infirmary unheard and unseen, 
and who now stood with his eyes fixed 
in grave displeasure on the daring Dan. 


KILLYKINICK 


III. — A Judgment. 

“Dan Dolan!” said Father Regan, as the 
reckless interloper flushed and paled 
beneath his steady gaze. 

“Dan Dolan!” echoed Brother Tim, who 
had come in behind his honored visitor. 
“How ever did he get past me! I’ve been 
saying my beads at the door without this 
half hour.” 

“Swung in by Old Top,” ventured Dan, 
feeling concealment was vain. 

“Old Top!” repeated the rector. “You 
dared Old Top ^at this height, when 
scarcely a bough is sound! You must be 
mad, boy. It is God’s mercy that you 
did not break your neck. Don’t you know 
the tree is unsafe?” 

“Yes, Father,” answered Dan. “But — 
but I had to see Freddy again, and they 
wouldn’t let me come up. I just had to 
see him, if it killed me.” 

And there was a sudden break in the 
young voice that startled his hearer. But a 
glance at the dizzy and forbidden height of 
Old Top and Father Regan was stern again. 


KILLYKINICK 


“Why did you have to see him, if it 
killed you?” he asked briefly. 

“Because I wanted to tell how bad I 
felt about letting him get hurt, because — 
because he has been better to me than 
any boy in the school, because — be- 
cause — ” (again Dan’s tone grew husky) 
“I just had to bid Freddy good-bye.” 

“O Father, no, no!” Freddy burst forth 
tremulously. “ Don’t let him say good-bye 1 
Don’t send Dan away. Father, please! He 
won’t fight any more, — will you, Dan?” 

“I am not promising that,” answered 
Dan, sturdily. “I won’t stand shoving 
and knocking, not even to keep my place 
here.” 

“O Dan!” cried Freddy, in dismay at 
such an assertion. “Why, you said you 
would work day and night to stay at 
Saint Andrew’s!” 

“Work, yes,” replied Dan, gruffly. “I 
don’t mind work, but I won’t ever play 
lickspittle.” 

“And is that the way ye’d be talking 
before his reverence?” broke in Brother 
Tim, indignantly. “Get out of the in- 
firmary this minute, Dan Dolan; for its 
the devil’s own pride that is on yer lips 
[26] 


KILLYKINICK 


and in yer heart, God forgive ye for 
saying it!” 

“We’ll settle this later,” said Father 
Regan, quietly. “Go down to my study, 
Dan, and wait for me. I have a message 
for Freddy from his uncle.” 

“O Dan, Dan!” (There was a sob in 
the younger boy’s voice - as he felt all 
this parting might mean.) “I’ll — I’ll miss 
you dreadfully, Dan!” 

“Don’t!” said Dan, gripping his little 
comrade’s hand. “I ain’t worth missing. 
I’m glad I came, anyhow, to say good-bye 
and good-luck, Freddy!” And he turned 
away at the words, with something shining 
in his blue eyes that Father Regan knew 
was not all defiance. 

It was a long wait in the study. Dan 
had plenty of time to think, and his 
thoughts were not very cheerful. He felt 
he had lost his chance, — the chance that 
had been to him like the sudden opening 
of a gate in the grim stone wall of cir- 
cumstances that had surrounded him, — a 
gate beyond which stretched free, sunlit 
paths to heights of which he had never 
dreamed. He had lost his chance; for 
a free scholarship at Saint Andrew’s de- 

[ 27 ] 


/ 


KILLYKINICK 


pended on good conduct and observance of 
rules as well a study; and Dan felt he had 
doubly and trebly forfeited his claim. But 
he would not whine. Perhaps it was only 
the plucky spirit of the street Arab that 
filled his breast, perhaps something stronger 
and nobler that steadied his lip and 
kindled his eye, as he looked around the 
spacious, book-lined room, and realized 
all that he was losing — had lost. For Dan 
loved his books, — the hard-earned scholar- 
ship proved it. Many a midnight hour had 
found him, wrapped in his worn blankets, 
studying by the light of a flaring candle- 
end stuck perilously on his bedpost, after 
good Aunt Win had thriftily put out 
the lamp, and believed Danny was sound 
asleep preparatory to a start on his beat 
at break of day. 

“ One of the brightest, clearest, quickest 
minds I ever knew,” Dan’s teacher had 
told Father Regan when awarding the 
scholarship, — “if he can only keep the 
track. But he has a bold spirit, and it 
will be hard on him among all those ‘ high- 
steppers ’ of yours at Saint Andrew’s. He 
is likely to bolt and break aw'ay.” 

But Dan had been too busy with his 


KILLYKINICK 


books all the year to mind “high-steppers.” 
His patched jacket kept the head of the 
classes, and his stubby-toed shoes marched 
up every month to get the ticket, and he 
had helped more than one heavy-witted 
“high-stepper” through conditions that 
threatened to put him out of the race. 
Most of the Saint Andrew’s boys were 
manly youngsters, with whom jackets and 
shoes did not count against brain and 
brawn; and strong, clever, quick-witted 
Dan had held his place in schoolroom and 
playground unquestioned. But there were 
exceptions, and Dud Fielding was one of 
them. He had disliked the “poor scholar” 
from the first. Dud was a tall, handsome 
fellow, filled with ideas of his own impor- 
tance; and Dan had downed him more 
than once in field and class-room, to his 
great disgust. Worse than all, in appre- 
ciation of his careful costuming, Dan had 
alluded to him as “Dudey,” — a boyish 
liberty which, considering the speaker’s 
patched jacket. Master Fielding could not 
forgive. It was the repetition’ of this 
remark, when Dud had appeared garbed in 
a summer suit of spotless linen, that had 
precipitated yesterday’s fight. 

[ 29 ] 


3 


KILLYKINICK 


Altogether, with all the restraints and 
interests of school time removed, vacation 
was proving a perilous period to the “left- 
overs” at Saint Andrew’s. Dan realized 
this as, turing his back on the book-lined 
room, with his hands thrust in his pockets, 
looking gloomily out of the broad window 
that opened on the quadrangle, he stood 
awaiting “judgment.” He expected no 
mercy : he felt grimly he had no claim to it. 
Maybe if he had a rich father or uncle or 
somebody grand and great to speak up for 
him, he might be given another chance; 
but a poor boy who, as Dud Fielding said, 
ought to be “ditch digging” — Dan choked 
up again at the thought that, after all, 
perhaps Dud was right: he was not' the 
sort to be pushing in here. He ought to be 
out in his own rough world, working his 
own rough way. All those fancies of his 
for better, higher things had been only 
“pipe dreams.” 

But jing, it would be hard to give up! 
Dan looked out at the quadrangle where 
he had led so many a merry game; at 
the ball field, scene of battle and victory 
that even Dud Fielding could not dispute; 
at the long stretch of the study hall 


KILLYKINICK 


windows opposite; at the oriel of the 
chapel beyond. All spoke to him of a life 
that had been like air and sunshine to a 
plant stretching its roots and tendrils 
in the dark. 

And he must leave it all! He must go 
back again to the old ways, the old work! 
He was big enough now to drive a butcher’s 
wagon, or clean fish and stuff sausages at 
Pete Patterson’s market store; or — or — 
there were other things he could do that 
a fellow like him must do when he is “down 
and out.’’ And while he still stared from 
the window, the grim, dogged look settling 
heavier upon his young face, Dan caught a 
footstep behind him, and turned to face 
Father Regan. 

“I’ve kept you waiting longer than I 
expected, Dan, but I had great news for 
Freddy, — news that took some time to 
tell.’’ The speaker sank into the tall 
stiff -backed chair known to many a young 
sinner as the “judgment seat.’’ “Now” 
(the clear, keen eyes fixed themselves 
gravely on the boy) ‘ ‘ I w^ant to have a 
talk with you. Things can not go on in 
this way any longer, even in vacation 
time. I must say that, after the last 


KILLY K IN ICK 


year’s good record, I am disappointed in 
you, Dan, — sorely disappointed.” 

“I’m sorry. Father,” was the respectful 
answer, but the grim, hard look on the 
young face did not change. “I’ve made a 
lot of trouble, I know.” 

“You have,” was the grave answer, 
“and trouble I did not expect from you. 
Still, circumstances have been against you, 
I must confess. But this does not alter the 
fact that you have broken strict rules that 
even in vacation we can not relax,^ — broken 
them deliberately and recklessly. You are 
evidently impatient of the restraint here at 
Saint Andrew’s; so I have concluded not 
to keep you here any longer, Dan.” 

“I’m not asking it. Father.” Dan tried 
bravely to steady voice and lip. “I’m 
ready to go whenever you say.” 

“To-morrow, then,” continued Father 
Regan, — “I’ve made arrangements for 
you to leave to-morrow at ten. Brother 
Francis will see that your trunk is packed 
to-night.” 

“Yes, Father,” said Dan, somewhat 
bewildered at the friendly tone in which 
this sentence was delivered. “I’d like 
to see Mr. Raymond and Mr. Shipman 

[ 32 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


before I go, and thank them for all they’ve 
done for me ; and Father Roach andF ather 
Walsh and all of them; and to say I’m 
sorry I made any trouble.” 

“Good gracious,” laughed Father Regan, 
“one would think you were on your 
dying bed, boy!” 

“I — I feel like it,” blurted out Dan, no 
longer able to choke down the lump in 
his throat. “I’d rather die, a good deal.” 

“Rather die!” exclaimed Father Regan, 
— “rather die than go to Killykinick ! ” 

“ Killykinick ! ” echoed Dan, breathlessly. 
“Your’re not — not sending me to a 
Reform, Father ? ’ ’ 

“Reform!” repeated the priest. 

“For I won’t go,” said Dan, desperately. 
“You haven’t any right to put me there. 
I’m not wild and bad enough for that. I’ll 
keep honest and respectable. I’ll go to 
work. I can get a job at Pete Patterson’s 
sausage shop to-morrow.” 

“Reform! Sausage shop! What are you 
talking about, you foolish boy, when I am 
only sending you all off for a summer holi- 
day at the seashore?” 

“A summer holiday at the seashore!” 
echoed Dan in bewilderment. 


KILLYKINICK 


“Yes, at Freddy’s place — Killykinick. 
I have just heard from his uncle, and he 
thinks it would be a fine thing to send 
Freddy up there to shake off his malaria. 
There’s a queer old house that his great- 
uncle left him, and an old sailor who still 
lives there to look out for things; and 
all the boating, bathing, swimming, fishing 
a set of lively young fellows can want ; so I 
am going to ship you all off there to-morrow 
morning with Brother Bart. It’s plain you 
can’t stand six weeks of vacation here, 
especially when there will be a general 
retreat for the Fathers next month. You 
see, I simply have to send you away.’’ 

“And you mean — you mean — ’’ (Dan’s 
voice trembled, his eyes shone,) — “you 
mean I can come back?’’ 

“Come back, of course, when school 
opens.’’ 

“ Jing!’’ said Dan, drawing a long breath. 
“I — I thought you were putting me out 
for good and all. I thought, with the 
fight and the climb and hurting Freddy 
I — I had done for myself. I thought — ’’ 
Here Dan’s feelings became too much for 
him, and he could only gulp down the 
:Sob that rose in his throat, with a look 


KILLYKINICK 


that went to Father Regan’s kind heart. 

“My poor b6y, no, no! Put you out 
of Saint Andrew’s for good and all! I 
never thought of such a thing for a moment. 
Of course I object seriously to fighting, 
to your reckless venture to Old Top ; 
but — well, you had strong temptations, 
and in vacation time one must not be 
too severe. At Killy kinick there will be 
more elbow-room. Have you ever been 
to the seashore?’’ 

“Never farther than the wharfs. But 
I can swim and dive and float,’’ answered 
Dan, wisely reserving the information 
that, as a member of the “Wharf Rats,’’ 
he had been ducked overboard at the age 
of six, to sink or swim. 

“Good!’’ said Father Regan. “Then 
you’ll have a fine time. And I am depend- 
ing on you to look out for the other boys. 
They have grown up in softer ways, and 
are not used to roughing it, as it is likely 
you will have to rough it at Killy kinick. 
But it will be good for you all, — for you 
all,’’ repeated the speaker cheerily, as he 
saw in Dan’s brightening face the joyful 
relief the boy did not know how to speak. 
“And you will come back ready for 

[35] 


KILLYKINICK 


double ‘X’ work in the fall. I am looking 
for great things from you, Dan. You’ve 
made a fine start, my boy! Keep it up, 
and some day you will be signing all the 
capital letters to Dan Dolan’s name that 
Saint Andrew’s can bestow.” 

“Sure I don’t know about that. Father,” 
said Dan, his speech softening into Aunt 
Winnie’s Irish tones with the warming of 
his heart. “You’re very good to me, but 
sometimes I think — well, what I thrashed 
Dud' Fielding for telling me: that I’ve no 
right to be pushing into a grand school 
like this. I ought to keep my place.” 

“And where is your place?” was the 
calm question. 

“Sure, sure — ” Dan hesitated as he 
recalled a very checkered childhood. “Now 
that Aunt Winnie is all broke up, I can’t 
say. Father.” 

“Then I will tell you, my boy! Just 
now, by the goodness and guidance of 
God, it is here, — here, where you have 
equal rights with any boy in the school. 
You have won them in winning your 
scholarship; they are yours as justly as 
if you had a father paying a thousand 
a year. There may be a little rough 
[36] 


KILLYKINICK 


rubbing now and then from fellows like 
Dud Fielding; but — well, everything that 
is worth having has its cost. So stand to 
your colors! Be, as you said yesterday, 
neither a bully nor a coward, but a man. 
Now go to see Aunt Winnie and bid her 
good-bye. Tell her I am sending you off 
for the jolliest kind of a holiday to 
Killykinick.” 

— I don’t know how to thank you. 
Father!” stammered Dan, feeling that 
his blackened sky had suddenly burst 
into rainbow light. 

‘‘Don’t try,” was the kind answer. ‘‘I 
understand, Dan. God bless you, my boy ! ’ ’ 

And, laying his hand for a moment on 
Dan’s sandy thatch of hair. Father Regan, 
dismissed the case. 


KILLYKINICK 


IV. — Aunt Winnie. 

It was a delighted Dan that bounded down 
the broad staircase and took a flying leap 
from the stone portico of the great hall 
door. “Hello!” said Jim Norris, who was 
lazily stretched on the grass, reading. 
“Is that a jump or a kick out?” 

“A jump,” answered Dan, grinning: 
“though I was primed for the other, sure. 
How is Dudey’s nose?” 

“Coming down,” said Jim, who was an 
easy-going mixer, whom everybody liked. 
“About the size and shape of a spring 
radish to-day. My, but he’s hot against 
you, Dan 1 Look out for him 1 Snake in the 
grass is nothing to Dud Fielding on the 
boil. Won’t even rattle fairly before he 
strikes.”' 

“Wouldn’t take the glad hand if I 
stretched it out to him and said I was 
sorry?” asked Dan. “Just now I feel 
like being at peace with everybody.” 

“Not much!” said Jim, impressively. 
“Or if he did there would be a snake 
sting ready for you, all the same. I know 

[38] 


KILLYKINICK 


Dud Fielding. 'He’ll get even with you 
if he dies for it.” 

“All right!” was the cheerful reply. 
“Let him get even then. Have you heard 
about Killykinick, Jim?” 

‘‘Yes: Father Regan told me. I don’t 
know what or where it is, but I’m ready 
for a start if it’s a cannibal isle. Anything 
is better than dying of dulness here. Where 
are you off so fast, Dan?” 

‘‘To see my aunt. She — she — There 
was a moment’s hesitation, for Dan knew 
all the admission meant to boys like 
Jim. But he added boldly: ‘‘She is at 
the Little Sisters’, you know, and I want 
to bid her good-bye before I leave.” 

‘‘Of course you do. These old aunts 
are great,” said Jim, with a friendly nod. 
‘‘I’ve got one myself up in the country. 
Wears bonnets and gowns that look as 
if they came out of the Ark. But, golly, 
she can make doughnuts and apple pies 
that beat the band! I’d rather spend a 
week at Aunt Selina’s than any place I 
know. Going to walk or ride, Dan?” 

‘‘Walk,” was the answer. ‘‘I generally 
do. It’s good for my health.” 

“Not on a day like this. I’ve got a 


KILLYKINICK 


pocketful of car tickets,” said Jim, shaking 
a dozen or so out on the grass. “We’ll 
have no use for them at Killykinick. Help 
yourself.” 

“No,” said Dan, sturdily. “Thank you 
all the same, Jim! But I don’t mind walk- 
ing a bit. I’ll match you at a game of 
tennis when I get back, and do 3’ou up.” 

“All right!” answered Jim, who, though 
slow and lazy and a bit dull at his books, 
was a gentleman through and through. 
Three generations of Norrises had cut 
their names on Old Top. 

And, lighter hearted for this friendli- 
ness, Dan kept on his way by short cuts 
and cross streets until he reached the quiet 
suburb where the modest buildings of the 
“Little Sisters” stretched long and wide 
behind their grey stone walls. He was 
admitted by a brisk, kind little old woman, 
who was serving as portress; and, after 
some parley, was shown up into Aunt 
Winnie’s room. It was spotless in its 
cleanliness and bare save for the most 
necessary articles of furniture. There were 
three other old ladies about in various 
stages of decrepitude, who seemed only 
dully conscious of Dan’s appearance; but 
[ 40 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Aunt Winnie, seated in her armchair by 
the window, started up in tremulous 
rapture at sight of her boy. Despite her 
age and infirmity, she was still a trig little 
body, with snow-white hair waved about 
a kind old wrinkled face and dim soft eyes, 
that filled with tears at “Danny’s” boyish 
hug and kiss. 

“It’s a long time ye’ve been coming,” 
she said reproachfully. “I thought ye 
were forgetting me entirely, Danny lad.” 

“Forgetting you!” echoed Dan. “Now, 
3^ou know better than to talk like that. 
Aunt Win. I’m thinking of you day and 
night. I’ve got no one else to think of 
but you. Aunt Win.” 

“Whisht now, — whisht!” Aunt Winnie 
sank her voice to a whisper, and nodded 
cautiously towards the nearest old lady. 
“She do be listening, lad. I’ve told them 
all of the grand, great college ye’re at, 
and the fine, bright lad ye are, but I’ve 
told them nothing more. Ye’re not to 
play the poor scholar here.” 

“Oh, I see!” said Dan, grinning. “Go 
on with your game then. Aunt Win.” 

“I’m not looking to be remembered,” 
Aunt Winnie continued dolefully. “What 


KILLYKINICK 


with all the French and Latin ye have to 
study, and the ball playing that you’re 
doing, I can’t look for you to think of a 
poor lone lame woman like me.” 

“Aunt Win!” burst forth Dan, impet- 
uously. 

“Whisht!” murmured Aunt Win again, 
with a glance at the old lady who was 
blinking sleepily. “Don’t ye be giving 
yerself away. And I suppose it’s the fine 
holiday that ye’re having now wid the 
rest of yer mates,” she went on. 

“Yes,” said Dan, feeling he could 
truthfully humor the old lady’s harmless 
pride here. “We’re off to-morrow for the 
j oiliest sort of a time at the seashore. 
Freddy Neville, the nicest little chap in 
college, has a place up somewhere on the 
New England coast, and four of us are 
going there for the summer.” 

And Danny launched into eager details 
that made Aunt Winnie’s eyes open indeed. 
But there was a little quiver in her voice 
when she spoke. 

“Ah, that’s fine for you, — that’s fine 
for you indeed, Danny! We can talk 
plain now; for” (as a reassuring snore 
came from her dozing neighbor) “thank 
[42] 


KILLYKINICK 


God, she’s off asleep ! It’s the grand thing 
for you to be going with mates like that. 
It’s what I’m praying for as I sit here 
sad and lonely, Dan, that God will give 
ye His blessing, and help ye up, up, up, high 
as mortal man can go.” 

'“And you with me. Aunt Win,” said 
Dan, who, seated on the footstool of 
the chair, was smoothing her wrinkled 
hand. 

“Ah, no, my lad, I don’t ask that! I’m 
not asking that at all, Danny. I’ll not 
be houlding to ye, and dragging ye down 
while ye’re climbing. And whisper, lad, 
while there’s no one listening: it’s naither 
wise nor best for ye to be coming here.” 

“Why not?” asked Dan, for he knew 
that he was the light of poor Aunt Win’s 
eyes and the joy of her old heart. 

“Because — because,” faltered Aunt Win- 
nie, “though it’s fibs I’ve been telling about 
yer grandeur and greatness — God forgive 
me that same ! — the old busybodies around 
will be wondering and prating about why 
ye lave me here, Dan, — because I might 
be a shame to ye before all the fine gentle- 
men’s sons that have taken ye up, — 
because” (Aunt Win’s voice broke entirely)- 

[43] 


KILLY KIN ICK 


“a poor old woman like me will only 
hurt and hinder ye, Dan.” 

“Hurt and hinder me!” echoed Dan, 
who, with all his cleverness, could not 
understand the depths and heights of good 
old Aunt Winnie’s love. 

“Aye, lad, hurt and hinder ye; for 
ye’re on the way up, and I’ll not be the 
one to hould ye back. I do be dreaming 
grand dreams of ye, Danny lad, — dreams 
that I don’t dare to spake out.” 

“Whisper them, then. Aunt Win,” 
urged Dan, softly. “Maybe I’ll make 
them come true.” 

“Ye couldn’t,” said the old woman, her 
dim eyes shining. “Only God in heaven 
can do that. For I dream that I see you on 
His altar, the brightest place that mortal 
man can reach. I’ll ne’er live to see that 
dream come true, Danny; but I believe 
it would make my old heart leap if I 
was under the sod itself.” 

“O Aunt Win, Aunt Win!” Dan lifted 
the wrinkled hand to his lips. “That is 
a great dream, sure enough. Sometimes, 
Aunt Win, I — I dream it myself. But, 
then, a rough-and-tumble fellow like me, 
-always getting into scrapes, soon wakes 


KILLY KIN ICK 


up. But one thing is sure: you can’t shake 
me, Aunt Win. Dreaming or waking, I’ll 
stick to you forever.” 

“Ah, no, lad, — no!” said the old woman, 
tremulously. “I’d not have ye bother 
with me Sure it’s the fine place I have 
here, with my warm room and nice bed, 
and the good Little Sisters to care for me, 
and the chapel close to hand. But I miss 
our own little place, sure, sometimes, 
Danny dear! I miss the pot of flowers on 
the window (it’s against the rule to grow 
flowers here), and me own little blue tea- 
pot on the stove, and Tabby curled up on 
the mat before th6 fire.” 

Aunt Winnie broke down and sobbed 
outright, while Danny was conscious of a 
lump in his throat that held him dumb. 

“Poor Tabby!” continued Aunt Winnie. 
‘ ‘ I hope the Mulligans are good to her, Dan. 
D’ye ever see her as ye pass their gate?” 

“I do,” answered Dan. “Molly Mulli- 
gan has tied a blue ribbon around her 
neck, and she is the pride of the house.” 

“And she has forgotten me, of course!” 
sighed Aunt Winnie. “But what could I 
expect of a cat!” 

“ Forgotten you? Not a bit! Molly says 
[.45 ] 


4 


KILLYKINICK 


she steals into your room upstairs and 
cries for you every night.” 

“Ah, it was the sore parting for us all, 
God help us!” said Aunt Winnie, brokenly. 
“But as long as it brings you luck, lad, 
I’ll never complain. This is the holy place 
to die in, and what could a poor ould 
woman ask more?” 

“A lot — a lot more ! ” burst forth Danny, 
passionately. “You should have a place 
to live and be happy in. Aunt Win. You 
should have your own fire and your own 
teapot, and your own cat in your own 
home; and I mean to get it back for you 
just as quick as I can.” 

“Whisht! whisht!” said Aunt Win, 
nervously, as the old lady nearby roused 
up, startled from her nap. 

“It’s time ye were going, Danny; for 
ye’re a long way from college, and I 
wouldn’t keep ye against rules. I hope 
ye’ll have a fine time at the seashore, with 
the fishing and boating and all the other 
grand sports. Good-bye and God bless 
ye, lad, until we meet again! Good-bye. 
Danny dear!” And, realizing from the 
wide-open eyes of the old lady near^him 
that all confidential communications were 
[46] 


KILLVKINICK 


over, Dan kissed Aunt Win’s withered 
cheek, and, his heart swelling with feelings 
he could not speak, took his way back 
to Saint Andrew’s, all his dreams, hopes,, 
ambitions for the future strangely shaken. 

Aunt Win, — gentle, loving, heartsick, 
homesick Aunt Win ! Aunt Win, with 
her soft, low, trembling voice begging 
him to give her up lest she should hurt 
and hinder him in his opening way! Aunt 
Win sighing for the little place she had 
called home, even while she was ready to 
give it up forever and die silent and lonely, 
that her boy might climb to heights of 
which she could only dream and never see ! 
Dear, faithful, true-hearted, self-forgetting 
Aunt Win ! Dan felt his own eyes blurring 
as he thought of all she had done, of all 
she was ready to sacrifice. 

And- — and — the other thought followed 
swiftly : he could give it all back to her, — 
the little attic rooms over Mulligans’, the 
flowerpot in the window, the blue teapot 
on the stove. Tabby on the hearth-rug, — 
he could give it all back to Aunt Win 
and bring her home. It would be long, 
long years before the higher paths into 
which he had turned would yield even 


KILLYK'INICK 


humble living; but the old ways were 
open to him still: the “ditch-digging” 
with which Dud Fielding had taunted 
him, the meat wagon, the sausage shop, 
that he had been considering only a few 
hours ago. What right had he to leave the 
good old woman, who had mothered him, 
lonely and heartsick that he might climb 
beyond her reach? And yet — yet to give 
up Saint Andrew’s, with all that it meant 
to him ; to give up all his hopes, his dreams ; 
to turn his back on those wide corridors 
and book-lined rooms for counter and 
cleaver; to give up, — to give up! Quite 
dizzy with his contending thoughts, Dan 
was striding on his way when a hearty 
voice hailed him: 

“Hello! That you, Dan? Jump in 
and I’ll give you a lift.” And Pete Patter- 
son’s ruddy face looked out from the 
white-topped wagon at the curb. “I was 
just thinking of you,” said Pete, as Dan 
willingly sprang up to the seat at his 
side; for Pete had been a friendly creditor 
in the days of the little attic home when 
credit was sometimes sorely needed. “Are 
you in with the ‘high brows’ for good 
and all?” 


KILLYKINICK 


“I — I don’t know,” hesitated Dan. 

“Because if you’re not,” continued 
Pete — “and what tarnation use a sturdy, 
chap like you will find in all that^ Latin 
and Greek stuff I can’t see, — if you’re 
not in for it, I can give you a chance.” 


KILLYKINICK 


V. — A “Chance.” 

“I CAN give you a chance,” repeated Pete, 
as he turned to Dan with his broad, ruddy 
face illumined by a friendly smile. “It’s 
a chance I wouldn’t hold out to every- 
body, but I know you for a wide-awake 
youngster, as honest as you are slick. 
Them two don’t go together in general; 
but it’s the combination I’m looking fur 
just now, and you seem to have it. I was 
thinking over it this very morning. ‘ Lord, 
lord,’ sez I to myself, ‘if Dan Dolan hadn’t 
gone and got that eddycation bug in his 
head, wouldn’t this be the chance for him?’ ” 

“What is it?” asked Dan; but there 
was not much eagerness in his question. 
Wide and springy as was the butcher’s 
cart, it did not appeal to him as a chariot 
of fortune just now. A loin of beef dangled 
over his head, a dead calf was stretched 
out on the straw behind him. Pete’s 
white apron was stained with bjood. Dan 
was conscious of a dull, sick repulsion of 
body and soul. 

“Well, it’s this,” continued Pete, cheer- 


KILLYKINICK 


fully. “You see, I’ve made a little money 
over there at my corner, and I’m planning 
to spread out, — do things bigger and 
broader. There ain’t no sort of use in 
holding back to hams and shoulders when 
ye can buy yer hogs on the hoof-. That’s 
what I’m in fur now, — hogs on the hoof; 
cut ’em, corn ’em, smoke ’em, salt ’em, 
souse ’em, grind ’em into sausage meat and 
head-cheese and scrapple, boil ’em into 
lard. Why, a hog is a regular gold mine 
when he is handled right. But I can’t 
handle it in that little corner shop I’ve 
got now: there’s no room fur it. But it’s 
too good a business there fur me to give 
up. So I’m going to open another place 
further out, and keep both a-going. And 
I can’t afford no high-class bookkeeper or 
clerk, that will maybe jump my trade and 
gobble all my profits. What I want is a 
boy, — a bright, wide-awake boy that knows 
enough about figguring to keep my 
accounts, and see that no one ‘ does ’ me,' — 
a boy that I can send round in the wagon 
to buy and sell ’cording to my orders, — a 
boy that will be smart enough to pick up 
the whole business from a to izzard, and 
work up as I worked up till I kin make 

[51 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


him partner. That’s the chance I’ve 
got, and I believe you’re the boy to take 
it.” 

“I — I would have to give up college of 
course,” said Dan, slowly. 

“Give up college!” echoed Pete. “Well, 
I should rather say you would! There 
ain’t no time fur books in a biz like mine. 
Now, Dan, what’s the good of college 
anyhow fur a chap like you? It ain’t ez 
if you were one of these high mug-a-mugs 
with a rich father to pay yer way through, 
and set you up in a white choker and 
swallow-tail coat afterwards. What’s the 
good of a strong, husky fellow fooling 
along with Latin and Greek, that will 
never be no use to him? You’d a heap 
better spiel plain strong English that will 
bring you in the spondulics. Why, look 
at me! I never had two years’ schooling 
in my life. It’s all I can do to scrawl 
‘P. J. Patterson,’ so folks can read it, 
and thump out the rest on a second-hand 
typewriter. But that ’ere same scrawl 
will bring five thousand dollars out of the 
bank any time I want it. If I had as much 
eddycation as you have, Dan, nobody 
couldn’t keep me in any school in the land 


KILLYKINICK 


another minute. It’s dead waste of time 
and money.” 

‘‘What would you pay me?” asked Dan, 
as the big loin of beef above joggled against 
his shoulder. 

‘‘Well, let me see!” considered Pete. 
‘‘I ain’t paying any fancy price at start, 
fur I don’t know how things will work 
out; but I won’t be mean with you, Dan. 
What do you say to four dollars a week 
and board?” 

* 

‘‘No,” answered Dan, promptly. ‘‘I 
don’t want your board at all.” 

‘‘Ye don’t?” said Pete in surprise. ‘‘It 
will be good board, Dan : no fancy fixings 
but filling, I promise you that, — good 
and filling.” 

‘‘I don’t care how filling it is,” answered 
Dan, gruffly. ‘‘I’d want my own board,, 
with Aunt Winnie. That’s all I’d come 
to you for, — to take care of Aunt Winnie.” 

‘‘Ain’t they ’good to her where she is?” 
asked Pete, who knew something of the 
family history. 

‘‘Yes,” answered Dan; ‘‘but she is not 
happy: she is homesick, and I want to 
bring her — home.” 

And something in the tone of the 


KILLYKINICK 


boyish voice told Pete that, with Aunt 
Winnie and a home, Dan would be secured 
as his faithful henchman forever. 

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I’ve 
got an old mother myself, and if I took 
her out of her little cubby-hole of a house 
and put her in the marble halls that folks 
sing about, she’d be pining. It’s women 
nature, specially old women. Can’t tear 
’em up by the roots when they’re past 
sixty. And that old aunt of yours has been 
good to you sure, — good as a mother.” 

“Yes,” answered Dan, a little huskily, 
“good as a mother.” 

“Then you oughtn’t to go back on her 
sure,” said Pete, reflectively. “Consider- 
ing the old lady. I’ll make it five dollars a 
week, if you’ll agree for a year ahead, Dan.” 

“A year ahead!” echoed Dan, thinking 
of all that year had promised him. 

“Yes,” said Pete, decidedly. “It must 
be a year ahead. I can’t break you in at 
such a. big figger, and then hev you bolt the 
track just as I’ve got used to you. I 
wouldn’t give five dollars a week to any 
other boy in the world, though I know lots 
of ’em would jump at it. It’s only thinking 
of that old mother of mine and how I’d 


KILLYKINICK 


feel in your place, makes me offer it to you. 
Five dollars a week will bring your Aunt 
Winnie back home. And, between you 
and me, Dan, if she ain’t brought back, 
she’ll be in another sort of home before 
long, and past your helping. Mrs. Mulli- 
gan was telling me the other day that she 
had been out to see her, and she was 
looking mighty peaked and feeble, — not 
complaining of course, but just pining 
away natural.” 

‘‘When will you want me?” blurted out 
Dan, desperately. ‘‘Right off now?” 

‘‘Oh, no, no!” was the hasty answer. 
‘‘I haven’t got the other place open yet, 
and this ’ere hot weather ain’t no time 
fur it. I’m just laying my plans for the 
fall. What were you thinking of doing 
this summer?” 

‘‘Going off with a lot of fellows to the 
seashore. But I’m ready to give it up,” 
answered Dan, gulping down the lump 
that rose in his throat. 

‘‘No, don’t, — don’t!” said Pete. ‘‘I 
haven’t got things fixed for a start yet. 
Won’t have them fixed for a couple of 
months or so. I ain’t a-Lurrying you. 
Just you think this ’ere chance over, and 

[ 55 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


make up your mind whether it ain’t 
wuth more than all that Greek and Latin 
they’re stuffing into your head at Saint 
Andrew’s. And then come around some- 
where about the first of September and 
see me ’bout it. I won’t go back on my 
offer. It will be five dollars cash down 
every Saturday night, and no renigging. 
I turn off here,” concluded Pete, drawing 
up as they reached a busy corner. “You’ll 
have to jump down; so bye, bye, Dan 
my boy, until I see you again ! Remember 
it’s five dollars a week, and a home for 
Aunt Winnie.” 

“I’ll remember,” said Dan, as, half 
dazed, he jumped from the wagon and 
took his way back to Saint Andrew’s. 

He entered the cross-crowned gateway 
that guarded the spacious grounds, feeling 
like one in a troubled dream. He could 
shape nothing clearly : his past, present, and 
future seemed shaken out of place like 
the vari-colored figures of a kaleidoscope. 
To give up all his hopes, to shut out the 
beautiful vista opening before him and 
settle down forever to — to — “hogs on the 
hoof!” And yet it was his only chance to 
cheer, to gladden, perhaps to save gentle 
[56] 


KILLYKINICK 


Aunt Win’s life, — to bring her home again. 

But would she be happy at such a 
sacrifice? Would she not grieve even at 
the fireside she had regained over her 
broken dreams? And Dan would come 
down from his dreams and visions (which, 
after all, are vague and uncertain things 
for boys of thirteen) to Tabby and the 
teapot, to the fluttering old hand in his 
clasp, the trembling old voice in his ear. 

The sun was close to its setting; supper 
was over, he knew; and Jim Norris was 
waiting impatiently for his promised geme. 
But he could not think of tennis just now; 
still less was he disposed for a meeting with 
Dud Fielding, whose voice he could hear 
beyond the box hedge at his right. So, 
turning away from tennis court and play- 
ground, Dan plunged into the quiet shelter 
of the walk that skirted the high, ivy- 
grown wall, and was already growing dim 
with evening shadows, though lances of 
sunlight glinting here and there through 
the arching pines broke the gloom. 

Pacing the quiet way with feeble step 
was an old priest, saying-his Office. Father 
Mack’s earthly work was done. He could 
no longer preach or teach; he was only 

[57] 


KILLYKINICK 


lingering in the friendly shadows of Saint 
Andrew’s, waiting his Master’s call home; 
his long, busy life ending in a sweet 
twilight peace. Sometimes at retreats or 
on great feasts, when there was a cro.wd 
of juvenile penitents in the college chapel. 
Father Mack, gentle and indulgent, had 
his place in a quiet corner, where he was 
rather avoided by young sinners as a 
“dying saint.” 

But Dan, whatever might be his month’s 
record of wrong-doing, had taken to 
Father Mack from the first. Perhaps it 
was something in the Irish voice that 
recalled Aunt Winnie ; perhaps some 
deeper sympathy between souls akin. 
Though they seldom met, for the old 
priest had his room in a building remote 
from the students’ quarters, Father Mack 
and Dan were fast friends. His presence 
here was most unlooked for; and Dan was 
about to retire without further intrusion, 
when the old priest closed his book and 
turned to him with a kindly nod. 

“You need not run off. I’m done, my 
boy. These long, hot days are a bit hard 
on me; but I like to stay out here in the 
evening to say my Office and watch the 
[58] 


KILLYKINICK 


sunset. Did you ever watch the sunset,, 
Danny? ” 

“Yes, Father,” answered t)an. * “It’s 
great.” 

“What do you see in it, Danny?” was 
the low question. 

“Oh, all sorts of things, Father,^ — domes 
and spires and banners of gold and red 
and purple, and pillars of cloud and fire — ” 

“And gates,” broke in Father Mack. 
“Don’t you see the gates, Danny, — gates 
that seem to open in the shining way that 
leads to God’s Throne? Ah, it’s a won- 
derful sight, the sunset, when your day is 
near done and you are tired and old, — 
too old to be picturing and dreaming. I’ll 
soon see — beyond the cloud and the 
dream, Danny, — I’ll soon see.” 

The old man paused for a moment, 
his .dim eye kindling, his withered face 
rapt. Then suddenly, as if recalled from 
some cloudy height to earth, his look and 
voice changed into fatherly interest. 

“Were you looking for me,- — were you 
wanting to talk to me, my son?” 

“No — yes — no,” faltered Dan, who had 
not thought of such a thing. “Well, yes, 

I believe I do. I’m all muddled up, and 


KILLYKINICK 


maybe you can set me right, Father Mack. 
For — for,” Dan blurted out without further 
hesitation, “I can’t see things clear.myself. 
Aunt Winnie is grieving and pining and 
homesick at the Little Sisters. She is 
trying to hide it, but she is grieving, I 
know. She broke down and cried to-day 
when I went to see her, — cried real sobs 
and tears. And — and” Dan went on with 
breathless haste, ‘‘Peter Patterson, that 
keeps the meatshop at our old corner, has 
offered me five dollars a’ week to come and 
work for him. To give up Saint Andrew’s — 
and — and — all it means. Father Mack, 
and work for him.” 


6o 


KILLYKINICK 


VI. — Father Mack. 

“Give up Saint Andrew’s !” repeated Father 
Mack in a low, startled voice. “You, Dan ! 
Give up! Oh, no, my boy, — no!” 

“Aunt Winnie will die if I don’t” blurted 
out Dan, despairingly. “Pete Patterson 
says so. And I can take her home and give 
her back her Httle rooms over Mulligans’, 
and the blue teapot and Tabby, and every- 
thing she loves. And Pete says I can work 
up to be his partner.” 

“His partner, — his partner! In what?” 
asked Father Mack, anxiously. 

“Meat business,” answered Dan. “He’s 
m.ade money, and he’s going in for it big, — 
corning, smoking, sausage, everything. 
I — I could take care of Aunt Winnie fine.” 

“Meat business, sausage? I don’t think 
I understand,” said Father Mack, in 
bewilderment. “Sit down here, Dan, and 
tell me all this over again.” 

Dan took his seat on a broken slab that 
had been a gravestone before the old 
college • cemetery had been condemned 
[6i 1 


5 


KILLYKINICK 


and removed beyond the limits of the 
growing city. It was a very old slab, 
bearing the Latin title' of some Brother 
or Father who had died fifty years ago. 
The sunset fell through a gap in the pines 
that showed the western sky, with its 
open gates, their pillars of cloud and fire 
all aglow. 

“Tell me slowly, calmly, Dan. My ears 
are growing dull.” 

And Dan told his story again, more 
clearly and less impetuously; while Father 
Mack listened, his bent head haloed by 
the setting sun. 

“I can’t let Aunt Winnie die,” con- 
cluded Dan. “You see, I have to think 
of Aunt Winnie, Father.” 

“Yes, I see, — I see, my boy,” was the 
low answer. “And it is only of Aunt 
Winnie you are thinking, Dan?” 

“Only of Aunt Winnie,” replied Dan, 
emphatically. “You don’t suppose any- 
thing else would count against Saint 
Andrew’s, Father. I’d work, I’d starve, 
I’d die, I believe, rather than give up my 
chance here?” 

“Yes, yes, it’s hard lines sometimes,” 
said Father Mack. “You may find it 
[62] 


KILLYKINICK 


even harder as the years go by, Dan. I 
heard about the trouble yesterday.” 

“Oh, did ydu, Father?” said Daii, some- 
what abashed. “Dud Fielding did stir 
the old Nick in me for sure.” 

“Yes,” said Father Mack. “And that 
same fierce spirit will be stirred again and 
again, Dan. Despite all your teachers 
can do for you, there will be pricks and 
goads we can not help.” 

“I know it,” answered Dan, sturdily. 
“I’m ready for them. Saint Andrew’s is 
worth all the pricks and goads I’ll get. 
But Aunt Winnie, Father, — I can’t forget 
Aunt Winnie. I’ve got to take Aunt 
Winnie back home.” 

“ Would she^ — wish it, at such — such a 
cost, Dan?” Father Mack questioned. 

“Cost.” repeated Dan! simply. “It 
wouldn’t cost much. The rooms are only 
a dollar a week, and Aunt Winnie can make 
stirabout and Irish stews and potato cake 
to beat any cook I know. Three dollars 
a week would feed us fine. And there 
would be a dollar to spare. And she could 
have her teapot on the stove again, and 
Tabby on the hearth-rug, only^ — only” 
(the young face clouded a little) “I’m 

[63] 


KILLYKINICK 

afraid, great as it all would be, she’d be 
grieving about her dreams.” 

“Her dreams!” echoed Father Mack, 
a little puzzled. 

“Yes,” said Dan. “You see, I am all 
she has in the world, and she is awful 
soft on me, and since I got into Saint 
Andrew’s she’s softer still. She thinks 
there’s nothing too great or grand for 
me to do. My, it would make you laugh. 
Father, to hear poor old Aunt Winnie’s 
pipe dreams about a tough chap like me!” 

“What does she dream, Dan?” asked 
the old priest softly. 

“I suppose she’d get out of them if 
she were home where things are natural 
like,” said Dan; “but now she sits up 
there in the Little Sisters’ dreaming that 
I’m going to be a priest, — a rough-and- 
tumble fellow like me!” 

“Stranger things than that have hap- 
pened, Dan,” said Father Mack, quietly. 
“I was a rough-and-tumble fellow myself.” 

“You, Father!” exclaimed Dan. 

“The ‘ roughest - and - tumblest ’ kind,” 
said Father Mack, his worn face brighten- 
ing into a smile that took away twenty 
years at least. “I ran away to sea, Dan, 

[ 64 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


leaving a gentle mother to break her 
heart for me. When I came back” (the old 
face shadowed again) “she was gone, Ah„ 
God’s ways are full of mystery, Dan! I 
think it was that made me a priest.” 

Father Mack was silent for a moment. 
His dim eyes turned to the sunset, where 
the cloud curtains were swept asunder, 
the pillared gates a glory of crimson and 
gold. Something in his old friend’s face 
hushed Dan’s questioning until Father 
Mack spoke again. 

“That was a long time ago, — a long 
time ago. But the thought of it makes me 
understand about Aunt Winnie, Dan, and 
how hard it is to give you up. Still^ — still — 
even of old God asked the firstlings of the 
flock. Sacrifice! sacrifice! It is the way 
to heaven, Dan. Heart, hopes, tears, 
blood, — always sacrifice.” And again the 
old speaker paused as if in troubled 
thought. “How soon must you make 
your choice, Dan?” he asked at length. 

“My choice? About leaving, you mean. 
Father? Oh, Pete Patterson doesn’t want 
me until fall. And I haven’t any place 
to go this summer, if I give up now. 
Father Regan is going to send us off to- 
[ 65 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


morrow with Brother Bart for a summer 
at the seashore.” 

“A summer at the seashore! Ah, good, 
good, — very good!” said Father Mack, 
his. old face brightening. “That will give 
us time to think, to pray, Dan. A summer ! 
Ah, God can work wonders for those who 
trust Him in a summer, Dan ! Think 
what He does with the seed, the grain, 
the fruit. It is not well to move or to 
choose hastily when we are in the dark 
as to God’s will. So say nothing about 
all this to any one as yet, Dan, — nothing 
this summer.” 

“I won’t. Father,” agreed Dan. 

‘ ‘ And I promise that every day you will 
be remembered in my Mass, Dan.” 

“Thank you. Father! That ought to 
keep me out of trouble sure.” 

“And now where is this seashore place? 
asked Father Mack, quite cheerfully. 

“An island called Killykinick, Father.” 

“ Killykinick?” echoed Father Mack, 
startled. “You are going to Killykinick? 
God bless me, how wonderful!” 

“You know the place. Father?” asked 
Dan, with interest. 

“I know it indeed,” was the answer. “I 

[ 66 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


was wrecked there in the wild days of which 
I told you, Dan, sixty years ago. The 
‘Maria Teresa’ (I was on a Portuguese 
ship) went upon the rocks on a dark 
winter night, that I thought was likely 
to be my last. For the first time in my 
reckless youth I really prayed. My dear 
mother, no doubt, was praying for me, 
too; for I learned afterwards that it was 
on that night she died, offering with her 
last breath her life for her boy. Well, 
we held together somehow until morning, 
and got off to the shore of Killykinick 
before the ‘Maria Teresa’ went down, 
loaded with the golden profits of a two 
years’ cruise.” 

‘‘And did they never get her up?” 
asked Dan, quite breathless with interest 
at this glimpse of a “dying saint’s” past. 

“Never,” answered Father Mack, — 
“at least never that I heard of. It was 
soon afterwards that I turned into other 
ways and lost sight of my old mates. But 
I always have remembered the friendly 
haven of Killykinick. It was a wild 
place, — only a few deserted fishermen’s 
huts on the rocky shore, where we lived 
on fish and clams until taken off by a 

[67] 


KILLYKINICK 


passing ship. But that same rocky shore 
meant safety, shelter, life. And so in 
the after years I have always blessed 
Killy kinick. And you are going there 
to-morrow! You will find it all changed,— 
all changed, I am sure,” said Father Mack, 
as he slowly rose to his feet, for the sunset 
was fading now. “But I will think of you 
there, Dan, — think of you frolicking over 
the rocks and sands where I wandered 
so long ago a shipwrecked boy. Now it 
is time for me to go in, for my old blood 
chills in the twilight; so I must say good- 
bye, — good-bye and God bless you, my 
boy!” 

And, laying his hand for a moment on 
the boyish head, the old priest turned away 
into the deepening shadows of the pines, 
leaving Dan, who was beginning to feel 
vividly conscious that he had missed his 
supper, to make a rapid foray into the 
refectory, where Brother James could 
always be beguiled into furnishing bread 
and jam in and out of time, — having 
been, as he assured the belated ones, a 
boy himself. 

There was another belated one this 
evening. Seated before a tempting spread 
[68] 


KILLYKINICK 


of milk toast, demanded by his recent 
convalescence, was Freddy Neville, a little 
pale and peaked perhaps, but doing full 
justice to a third creamy slice, and ready 
for more. 

“Why, hello, Fred!” greeted Dan, 
dropping into the chair beside him. “You 
down? ” 

“Yes,” said Fred, spooning his dish 
vigorously. “I’m well, all right now. 
Temperature gone. Brother Tim says. 
Can’t I have a littl.e more toast. Brother 
James, please? I’m not half filled up yet. 
Supper testes twice as good down here. 
I’ve been out with Brother Bart buying 
shoes and things to go to Killykinick,^ 
and I’m hungry as a bear.” 

“Wait a bit then, and I’ll bring ye both 
in some strawberry jam and biscuits,” 
said Brother James, good-humoredly. “It’s 
the black fast Brother Tim puts on sick 
boys, I know. When they came down 
after the measles I couldn’t get them 
enough to eat for a month. There now!” 
And the good man set forth supplies 
liberally. “I know what it is. I’ve been, 
a hungry boy myself.” 

“ Jing, it’s good to be up and out again!” 

[69] 


KILLYKINICK 


said Freddy, as both boys pitched into 
biscuits and jam. “I felt down and out 
this morning sure, Dan, and now every- 
thing is working fine. We’re going to have 
the time of our lives this summer, after 
all. Even Dud Fielding is cooling off, Jim 
Norris says, now that his nose has gone 
down, and he has heard about Killykinick.” 

“Who told him?” asked Ddn, who did 
not feel particularly cheered at these 
tidings; for Dud’s “cooling off” was by 
no means to be trusted, as he knew. 

“Father Regan, of course. He couldn’t 
send the boys unless they wanted to go. 
But when they heard about the old house 
uncle made out of his ship, and the row- 
boats and the sailboat, and the bathing 
and fishing, they just jumped at the 
chance to go. And Jim says there is a 
fine place not far off, where Dud spent 
the season two years ago with some tip 
toppers, and he’s counting on getting in 
with them again. So he is tickled all 
around. But I’m not caring about Dud 
or what he likes, so long as I’ve got you, 
Dan. I wouldn’t want to go without you.” 

“Wouldn’t you, kid?” asked Dan, softly; 
for, after all the troubles and perplexities 
[70] 


KILLYKINICK 


of the day, his little chum’s trusting 
friendship seemed very sweet to him. 

“No-o-o!” answered Freddy, most de- 
cidedly. “But I sort of wish Brother Bart 
was not going. He’ll keep me such a baby !’ ’ 
“No, he won’t. I’ll see to that,’’ said 
Dan, with a twinkle in his eye. “If there’s 
any way of giving you a good time,. I’ll do 
it. And I won’t let you get hurt again 
either, — no sir! I’ve had my scare about 
that. I’m going to look out for you right. 
It may be for the last time, but — ’’ 

“The last time,’’ interrupted Freddy 
quickly. “Why will it be the last time?’’ 

‘ ‘ I mean I may never have a chance at 
such a jolly holiday again,’’ answered Dan, 
suddenly remembering his promise to 
Father Mack. “But we’ll make this one a 
hummer. If Killykinick is half what I 
think it is, we’ll make this chance a 
hummer you’ll never forget.’’ 


KILLYKINICK 


VII. — A Holiday Start. 

And the holiday proved to be a “hummer” 
from the very start. Everybody was in 
high spirits. Even Dud Fielding, with his 
nose happily reduced to its normal color 
and size, had lost his “grouch,” and was 
quite himself again, in a sporting suit of 
English tweed, ordered from his tailors 
for “roughing it.” Easy-going Jim was in 
comfortable khaki; so was little Fred; 
while Dan had been privately presented 
by the Brother ward-robian with two suits 
of the same, — “left by boys for the poor,” 
good Brother Francis had whispered 
confidentially. 

“I fill the bill then, sure,” said Dan, 
with a cheerful grin. 

“You do, but many a fine man has done 
the same before you,” answered Brother 
Francis, nodding. “I’ve put a few more 
things in your trunk, Dan; take them and 
God bless you! I’ve cut off the marks so 
nobody’ll be the wiser.” 

Brother Bart’s wrinkled face wore a glow 
of pleasurable excitement as, after seeing 

[ 72 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


the baggage off, he marshalled his holiday 
force on the college porch for the last words 
of command from his reverend chief. 

“Give your orders now, Father; though 
God' knows how I’ll be able to keep this 
lot up to them. They are not to be killing 
and drowning themselves against my will 
and word.’’ 

“Certainly not,’’ said Father Regan, 
with a smile. “Brother Bart is to be 
obeyed boys, or you’ll promptly be ordered 
home.’’ 

“And there is to be no roving off wid 
pirates and smugglers that may be doing 
their devilment along the shore,’’ con- 
tinued Brother Bart, anxiously. 

“The government looks out for all that 
now,’’ laughed Father Regan. 

“I’m not so sure,’’ said Brother Bart, 
who had grown up in a wild stretch of 
the Irish coast. “It’s a wicked world, and 
we’re going bey ant the Lord’s light that 
shines on us here.’’ 

“Not at all,’’ was the cheering assurance. 
“Beach Cliff is only six miles away, and 
it has a little church where there is a 
Mass every Sunday.’’ 

“The Lord be praised for that anyhow ! ’’ 

[ 73 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


said the good man, with a sigh of relief. 
“It’s a great burthen that ye’ve put on 
my body and soul, Father. But I’ll do me 
best, and, with God’s help. I’ll bring the 
four of them back safe and sound to ye. 
Now give us your blessing and we’ll be off.” 

And very soon they were off indeed, 
speeding on to the busy wharf, scene of 
many a “lark” in Dan’s boyish past. Here 
the great steamboat was awaiting them; 
for, although the route was long’er and more 
circuitous. Father Regan had decided it 
best for his young travellers to make their 
journey by sea. 

To Jim and Dud such a trip was no 
novelty; even Freddy had taken more 
than one holiday outing with Uncle Tom; 
but to Dan — Dan whose busy, workaday 
childhood had excluded even the delights 
of a cheap excursion — everything was 
wonderfully and deliciously new. He felt 
like one in a bewildering dream. As the 
great floating palace, all aglitter and 
aglow with splendors of paint and up- 
holstery hitherto unknown, swung from 
her moorings out into the stream, Dan 
quite forgot the gentility of his surround- 
ings and the elegant Dud Fielding at his 

f74l 


KILLYKINICK 


elbow, and waved his hat with a wild 
“Hurrah” to half a dozen Wharf Rats 
who were fishing off the pier. 

“Dan Dolan!” rose the shrill-voiced 
chorus, and six pairs of bare legs dangling 
over the water scrambled up to a stand. 
“Jing! if it ain’t Dan Dolan, — Dan 
Dolan all diked up like a swell! Hi-yi- 
yi-yi, Dan! Where are you going, Dan?” 

“Seashore, New England, Killykinick ! ” 
Dan shouted back, quite unconscious of 
the smiles and stares of the passengers. 
“Off for the summer! Hooray!” 

“Hooray — hooray!” with a series of 
whoops and catcalls came back the Wharf 
Rats’ farewells, echoing with such friendly 
memories of a rough past that Dan was 
struck speechless by the fierce contrasting 
voice in his ear. 

“You darned dunderhead!” whispered 
Dud Fielding. “Can’t you keep quiet in 
a decent crowd?” 

“Eh?” said Dan in bewilderment. 

“Don’t you see everybody staring at 
us?” continued Dud, wrathfully. “To be 
shouting at dirty little beggars like those 
and disgracing us all!” • 

“Disgracing you?” echoed Dan. 

[ 75 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Yes,” said Dud, still hot with pride 
and rage. “And there are the Fosters on 
the upper deck, — people I know. Come, 
Jim, let’s cut off before they see us with 
this low-down chump.” 

And Dud led easy-going Jim to the 
other side of the boat. 

“Low-down chump!” Unconscious as 
he was of any offence, Dan felt the scornful 
sting of the words, and his hot blood began 
to boil; but he remembered the “pricks 
and goads ” he had resolved to bear bravely, 
and shut his lips tight together as Freddy 
stole a small hand into his own. 

With the last “Hi-yi” the Wharf Rats 
had settled back to their occupation, 
and Freddy eyed them from the growing 
distance most favorably. 

“Did you ever fish like that, Dan?” 
he asked with interest. 

“Often,” was the brief reply; for Dan 
was still hot and sore. 

“Golly, it must be fun! And did you 
catch anything, Dan?” 

“My dinner,” answered Dan, grimly. 

“Jing!” exclaimed Freddy, breathlessly. 
“That w^s great! When we get to Killy- 
kinick let us go out like those bare- 
[76] 


KILLYKINICK 


legged boys and catch our dinner, too.” 

And Dan laughed and forgot he was 
a “low-down chump” as he agreed they 
would catch dinners whenever possible. - 
Then he and Freddy proceeded to explore 
the big boat high and low, decks, cabins, 
saloons, machinery wherever visible. 
Freddy, who had made similar explora- 
tions with Uncle Tom as guide, was quite 
posted in steamboat workings; but it 
was all new and wonderful to Dan, who 
had only dry book-knowledge of levers 
and cogs and wheels; and to watch them 
in action, to gaze down into the fiery 
depths of the furnace, to hear the mighty 
throb of the giant engine, — to see all these 
fierce forces mastered by rules and laws 
into the benignant power that was bearing 
him so gently over summer seas, held him 
breathless with interest and delight. Even 
the clang of the first dinner gong could not 
distract him from his study of cylinder and 
piston and shaft and driving-rod, and all 
shining mechanism working without pause 
or jar at man’s command. 

“Just as if they had sense,” said Dan, 
thoughtfully, — “a heap more sense than 
lots of living folk I know.” 

[ 77 1 


6 


KILLYKINICK 


“That’s what Uncle Tom says,” replied 
Freddy, to whom, in their brief holidays 
together, Uncle Tom, cheery and loving, 
was an authority beyond question. “He 
says they work by strict law and rule, and 
people won’t. They shirk and kick. Jing! 
if these here engines took to shirking and 
kicking where would we be? But they 
don’t shirk and kick against law. Uncle 
Tom says they obey, and that’s what boys 
ought to do — obey. Gee! it’s good we’re 
not engines, isn’t it, Dan? We’d blow 
things sky high. — Here’s the second call 
for dinner,” said Freddy, roused from these 
serious reflections by the sound of the gong. 
“We’d better move quick, Dan, or the ice- 
cream may give out.” 

“Can you have ice-cream, — all you 
want?” asked Dan 

“Well, no,” hesitated Freddy, who knew 
what Dan could do in that line, — “not like 
we have at college. They dish it out other 
places a little skimp, but they’ll give you 
a good supply of other things to make up.” 

Which information Dan soon found to 
be most pleasantly correct; and, though 
the glories of the long dining room, with 
its corps of low-voiced waiters, were at 

[78] 


KILLYKINICK 


first a trifle embarrassing, and Brother 
Bart’s grace, loudly defying all human 
respect, attracted some attention to his 
table, the boys did full justice to the good 
things set so deftly before them, and went 
through the bill of fare most successfully. 

The black waiters grinned as the young 
travellers proceeded to top off with apple 
pie and ice-cream, combined in such 
generous proportions that Brother Bart 
warned them that the sin of gluttony 
would be on their souls if they ate another 
mouthful. 

Then Freddy, sorely against his will, was 
borne off by his good old friend to rest, 
according to Brother Tim’s last order; 
while Dan was left to himself to watch the 
boat turning into the shore, where a wharf 
loaded with truck for shipping jutted out 
into the stream; and one passenger — a 
sturdy, grizzled man in rough, brown 
hunting corduroy — leaped aboard followed 
by two fine dogs. Then the laboring 
engines, with puff and shriek, kept on their 
way; while Dan continued his investi- 
gations, and made friendly overtures to a 
big deck hand who, volunteered to show 
the eager young questioner “below.” 

[ 79 J 


KILLYKINICK 


And “below” they went, down steep, 
crooked steps that led away from all the 
glitter and splendor above, into black 
depths, lit only by fierce glow of undying 
fires. Brawny, half-naked figures fed 
and stirred the roaring flames; the huge 
boilers hissed, the engines panted; but 
through all the darkness and discord came 
the measured beat of the ship’s pulse that 
told there was no shirk or kick,^ — that all 
this mighty mechanism was “obeying.” 

And then, this dark sight-seeing over, 
Dan came up again into the bright, sunlit 
deck crowded with gay passengers chatting 
and laughing. Brother Bart was making 
efforts at conversation with an old French 
priest returning to his mission in the 
Canadian forests ; Dud had introduced 
Jim to his fashionable friends, and both 
boys were enjoying a box of chocolates 
with pretty little Minnie Foster; Freddy 
was still “resting” in his stateroom. 

All were unmindful of the dark, fiery 
depths below, where fierce powers were 
working so obediently to bear them on 
their happy, sunlit way, that was widening 
each moment now. The smiling shores, 
dotted with farms and villages, were 
[8o] 


KILLYKINICK 


stretching away into hazy distance; there 
was a new swell in the waves as they felt 
the heart-beat of the sea. It was all new 
and wonderful to Dan; and he stood lean- 
ing on the deck rail of a secluded corner 
made by a projecting cabin, watching the 
sunset glory pale over the swift vanishing 
shore, when he was suddenly startled by a 
deep voice near him that questioned: 

“Worth seeing, isn’t it?’’ 

Dan looked up and saw the big grizzled 
stranger in corduroy gazing at the spfendor 
of the western s]<;y. 

“Yes, sir,” answered Dan. “It’s great! 
Are we out at sea now? ” 

“Almost,” was the reply. “Not in the 
full swell yet, but this is our last sight of 
land.” He nodded to a promontory where 
the delicate lines of a lighthouse were 
faintly pencilled against the sunset. 

‘ ‘ Jing 1 ’ ’ said Dan, drawing a long breath. 
“It feels queer to be leaving earth and 
sun and everything behind us.” 

His companion laughed a little harshly. 
“I suppose it does at your age,” he said. 
“Afterwards” (he stopped to light a cigar 
and puff it into glow), — “afterwards we 
get used to it.” 


KILLYKINICK 


“Of course,” assented Dan, “because 
we know we are coming back.” 

“Coming back!” repeated the other 
slowly. “We are not always sure of that. 
Sometimes we leave the land, the light, 
behind us forever.” 

“Oh, not forever!” said Dan. “We 
would have to strike light and land some- 
where unless we drowned.” 

“We don’t drown,” continued the 
stranger. “We do worse: we drift, — 
drift in darkness and night.” 

Dan stared. His companion had taken 
his cigar from his lips and was letting its 
glow die into ashes. 

“Folks do drown sometimes,” said Dan. 
“I tell you if you go round the bottom of 
this boat you’d see how we could drown 
mighty easily. Just a wheel or a crank or 
a valve a mite wrong,— whew! we’d all 
be done for. But they don’t go wrong; 
that’s the wonder of it, isn’t it?” said Dan, 
cheerfully. “If everybody kept steady 
and straight as a steam-engine, this would 
be a mighty good world.” 

“No doubt it would,” was the reply. 
“Are you not rather young to be facing 
it alone?” 


KILLYKINICK 


“Oh, I’m not alone!’’ said Dan, hastily. 
“I’m off with a lot of other fellows for 
the seashore. We are college boys from 
Saint Andrew’s.’’ 

‘ ‘ Saint Andrew’s ? ’ ’ The stranger started 
so violently that the dying cigar dropped 
from his hold. “Saint Andrew’s College, 
you say, boy! Not Saint Andrew’s in — ’’ 

But a clear young voice broke in upon 
the excited question. 

“Dan Dolan! Where are you, Dan? Oh, 
I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’’ 

And, fresh and rosy from his long rest, 
Freddy Neville' bounded out gleefully to 
Dan’s side. 

A low cry burst from the stranger’s 
lips, and he stood staring at the boys as 
if turned into stone. 


[83] 


KILLYKINICK 


VIII. — A New Friend. 

“JiNG, you gave me a scare, Dan!'’ sail 
Freddy, drawing a long breath of relief. 
“I thought you had dropped overboard.” 

“Overboard!” scoffed Dan. “You must 
think I’m a ninny. And you have been 
sleeping sure! Got to keep this sort of 
thing up all summer?” 

“Oh, no, no!” said Freddy: “only for 
a few days, — until I get real well and 
strong; though Brother Bart will keep 
fussing over me, I know. Golly, I wish 
we had Uncle Tom along with us!” 

“All right, is he?” asked Dan. 

“Great!” replied Freddy, emphatically. 
“ Doesn’t baby you a bit; lets you row and 
swim and dive when you go off with him. 
Most as good as a real father.” 

‘ 'Just as good, I guess,” amended Dan. 

“No,” said Freddy, shaking his head. 
“You see, he has other work — preaching 
and saying Mass and giving missions — 
where I don’t come in. He has to leave 
me at Saint Andrew’s because he hasn’t 
any home. It must be just fine to have a 
[84] 


KILLYKINICK 


home that isn’t a school, — a sort of cosy 
little place, with cushioned chairs, and 
curtains, and a fire that you can ^ee, and 
a kitchen where you can roast nuts and 
apples and smell gingerbread baking, and 
a big dog that would be your very own. 
But you can’t have a home like that when 
you have only a priest uncle like mine.” 

“No, you can’t,” agreed Dan, his thoughts 
turning to Aunt Winnie and her blue tea- 
pot, and the little rooms that, despite all 
the pinch and poverty, she had made 
home. 

“And Christmas,” went on Freddy (both 
young speakers being quite oblivious of the 
big stranger who had seated himself on a 
camp stool in the shelter of the projecting 
cabin, and, with his folded arms resting 
on the deck rail, was apparently studying 
the distant horizon), — “I’d like to have 
one real right Christmas before I get 
too big for it.” 

“Seems to me you have a pretty good 
time as it is,” remarked Dan: “new 
skates and sled, and five dollars pocket 
money. There wasn’t a fellow at the 
school of your age had any more.” 

“That’s so,” said Freddy; “but they 

[85I 


KILLYKINICK 


went home. A fellow doesn’t want pocket 
money when he goes home. Dick Fenton 
had only sixty cents; I lent him fifteen 
more to get a card-case for his mother. 
But he had Christmas all right, you bet: 
a tree that went to the ceiling (he helped 
to cut it down himself) ; all the house 
‘woodsy’ with wreaths and berries and 
fires, — real fires where you could pop corn 
and roast apples. He lives in the country, 
you see, where money doesn’t count; for 
you can’t buy a real Christmas; it has to 
be homemade,” said Freddy, with a little 
sigh. ‘‘So I’ll never have one, I know.” 

Then the great gong sounded again to 
announce supper; and both boys bounded 
away to find the rest of their crowd, 
leaving the big stranger still seated in the 
gathering darkness, looking out to sea. As 
the boyish footsteps died into silence, he 
bowed his head upon his hands, and his 
breast heaved with a long, shuddering 
breath as if some dull, slumbering pain had 
wakened into life again. Then, in fierce 
self-mastery, he rose, stretched his tall 
form to its full height, and, ascending to 
the upper deck, began to pace its dimming 
length with the stern, swift tread of one 
[86] 


KILLYKINICK 


whose life is a restless, joyless march 
through a desert land. 

Meanwhile Brother Bart and his boys 
had begun to feel the roll of the sea, and 
to realize that supper had been a mistake. 
Jim and Dud had retired to their state- 
rooms, with unpleasant memories of Minnie 
Foster’s chocolates, and the firm con- 
viction that they never wanted to see a 
candy box again. Brother Bart was 
ministering to a very white-faced “laddie,” 
and thanking Heaven he was in the state 
of grace and prepared for the worst. 

“The Lord’s will be done, but I don’t 
think any of us will live to see the morning. 
There must have been some poison in the 
food, to take us all suddint like this.” 

“Oh, no. Brother Bart!” gasped Freddy, 
faintly. “ I’ve been this way before. We’re 
all just — just — seasick. Brother Bart — 
dead seasick.” 

Even Dan had a few qualms, — just 
enough to send him, with the sturdy sense 
of his rough kind, out into the widest 
sweep of briny air within his reach. He 
made for a flight of stairs that led up into 
some swaying, starlit region where there 
were no other suTerers, and flung himself 

[87] 


KILLYKINICK 


upon a pile of life-preservers that served 
as a pillow for his dizzy head. Sickness of 
any sort was altogether new to Dan, and 
he felt it would be some relief to groan out 
his present misery unheard. But the glow 
of a cigar, whose owner was pacing the 
deck, suddenly glimmered above his head, 
and the big man in corduroy nearly 
stumbled over him. 

“Hallo!” he said. “Down and out, my 
boy? Here, take a swig of this!” and he 
handed out a silver- mounted flask. 

“No,” said Dan, faintly, — “can’t. I’ve 
taken the pledge.” 

“Pooh! Don’t be a fool, boy, when 
you’re sick!” 

“Wouldn’t touch it if I were dying,” 
said Dan. “I’m getting better now, any- 
how. My, but I felt queer for a w'hile! 
It is so hot and stuffy below. No more 
packing in on a shelf for me. I’ll stick 
it out here until morning.” 

“And the others, — the little chap who 
was with you?” the stranger asked hastily. 
“Is he — he sick, too? ” 

“Freddy Neville? Yes, dead sick; but 
Brother Bart is looking out for him. 
Brother Bart is a regular old softy about 
[ 88 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Freddy. He took him when he was a 
little kid and keeps babying him yet.” 

“He is good to hirh, you mean?” asked 
the other, eagerly. 

“Good? Well, I suppose you’d call it 
good. I couldn’t stand any such fussing. 
Why, when Fred got a tumble in the gym 
the other day the old man almost had a fit !” 

“A tumble,— a fall? Did it hurt him 
much?” There was a strange sharpness 
in the questioner’s voice. 

“Pooh, no!” said Dan. “Just knocked 
him out a little. But we were all getting 
into trouble at Saint Andrew’s, for vacation 
there is pretty slow; so Father Regan 
has sent us off to the seashore for the 
summer.” 

“The seashore? Where?” 

“Some queer place called Killykinick,” 
answered Dan, who was now able to sit 
up and be sociable. 

“Killykinick?” repeated his companion, 
in a startled tone. “Did you say you 
Were going to Killykinick?” 

“Yes,” answered Dan. “Freddy’s uncle 
or cousin or somebody died a while ago 
and left him a place there. Freddy has 
a lot of houses and money and things 

[89] 


KILLYKINICK 


all his own. It’s lucky he has. He isn’t 
the- kind to rough it and tough it for 
himself. Not that he hasn’t plenty of 
grit,” went on Freddy’s chum, hastily. 
“He’s as plucky a little chap as I ever 
saw. But he’s been used to having life 
soft and easy. He is the ‘big bug’ sort. 
(I ain’t.) So I’m glad he has money 
enough to make things smooth at the start, 
though his no-’count father did skip off 
and leave him when he was only five years 
old.” 

“His father left him?” repeated Dan’s 
companion. “Why?” 

“Don’t know,” answered Dan. “Just 
naturally a ‘quitter,’ I guess. Lots of 
menfblks are. Want a free foot and no 
bother. But to shake a nice little chap 
like Freddy I call a dirty, mean trick, 
don’t you?” 

“There might be reasons,” was the 
hesitating rejoinder. 

“What reasons?” asked Dan, gruffiy. 
“There ain’t any sort of reason why a 
father shouldn’t stick to his job. I hate 
a ‘quitter,’ anyhow,” concluded Dan, 
decisively. 

“Wait until you are twenty years older 

[90] 


KILLYKINICK 


before you say that, my boy!” was the 
answer. “Perhaps then you will know 
what quitting costs and means. But you’re 
an odd chum for that little boy. I saw him 
with you down below. How is it that 
you’re such friends?” 

And then Dan, being of a communicative 
nature, and seeing no cause for reserve^ 
told his new acquaintance all about the 
scholarship that had introduced him into 
spheres of birth and breeding to which he 
frankly confessed he could make no claim. 

“I’m not Freddy’s sort, I know; but he 
took to me somehow, — I can’t tell why.” 

Yet as Dan went on with his simple, 
honest story, his listener, who, world-wise 
and world-weary as he was, knew some- 
thing of the boyish nature that turns 
instinctively to what is strong and true 
and good, felt he could tell why Freddy 
took to this rough diamond of a chum. 

Dan, in his turn, learned that his new 
acquaintance was called John Wirt; that 
he was off on a vacation trip, hunting and 
fishing wherever there was promise of good 
sport; that he had travelled abroad for 
several years, — had been to China, Japan 
India, Egypt; had hunted lions and 

[ 9 > ] 


KILLYKINICK 


elephants, seen the midnight sun, crossed 
Siberian steppes and African deserts. 
From a geographical standpoint, Mr. 
Wirt’s story seemed an open and extensive 
map, but biographically it was a blank. 
Of his personal history, past, present or 
future, he said nothing. Altogether, Dan 
and his new acquaintance had a pleasant 
hour on the open deck beneath the stars, 
and made friends rapidly. 

“I wish you were going our way,” said 
Dan, regretfully, as his companion an- 
nounced that he was to get off at the first 
point they touched. “Brother Bart is 
-going to granny us all, I know. If we had 
a real strong man like you around, he 
wouldn’t scare so easily. And there is 
fine fishing about Killy kinick, they say.” 

“So I have heard.” The stranger had 
risen now, and stood, a tall shadow dimly 
outlined above Dan. “I — I — perhaps I’ll 
drop in upon you. Isn’t it time for you 
to turn in now?” 

“No,” answered Dan, — “not into that 
packing box below. I’m up here for the 
night.” 

“And I’m off before morning, so it’s 
good-bye and good luck to you ! ’ ’ 


KILLYKINICK 


And, with a friendly nod, Mr. John 
Wirt strode away down the darkened deck, 
leaving Dan to fling himself back upon his 
life-preservers, and wonder how, when, or 
where he had seen their new acquaintance 
tefore, — not at Saint Andrew’s; for Mr. 
Wirt had been abroad, as he had said, ever 
since Dan entered the college ; not at 
Milligans’ or Pete Patterson’s-, or anywhere 
about his old home. Perhaps he had 
blacked his shoes or sold him a newspaper 
in some half -forgotten past ; for surely 
there was something in his tone, his glance, 
his friendly smile that Dan knew. 

He felt quite well now. All the dizziness 
and nausea had vanished, and he was his 
own strong, sturdy self again. The roll 
and sway of the boat were only the rock of 
a giant cradle ; the surge of the sea, a deep- 
toned lullaby soothing him to pleasant 
dreams; and the sky! Dan had never seen 
such a midnight sky. He lay, with his head 
pillowed in his clasped hands,, looking up 
at the starry splendor above him with a 
wonder akin to awe. The gi^at, blue vault 
arching above him blazed with light from 
a myriad stars, that his books had told him 
were worlds greater than this on whose 

[ 93 ] 


7 


KILLYKINICK 


wide waters he was tossing now, — worlds 
whose history the wisest of men could 
never know,^ — worlds, thousands and mil- 
lions of them, moving in shining order by 
“rule and law.” 

“Rule and law,” — it was the lesson that 
seemed to face Dan everywhere, — down 
in those black depths he had penetrated 
to-day, where valve and lever and gauge 
held roaring fire and hissing steam, with all 
their fierce force, to submission and service ; 
in the polished mechanism whose steady 
throb he could feel pulsing beneath him 
like a giant heart ; in the radiant sky where 
worlds beyond worlds swept on their 
mysterious way — “obeying.” 

With half -formed thoughts like these 
stirring vaguely in his mind, Dan was 
dropping off into pleasant sleep, when he 
was roused by the sound of voices and the 
glimmering of a ship’s lantern. 

“I think you will find your boy here, sir.” 

It was Mr. John Wirt, who, with the aid 
of a friendly deck hand, was guiding a pale, 
tottering, very sick Brother Bart to Dan’s 
side. 

“Who wants me?” asked the half- 
wakened Dan, springing to his feet. 

[94] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Dan Dolan! Ye young rapscallion!’' 
burst out Brother Bart, almost sobbing in 
his relief. “It’s down at the bottom of the 
black sea I thought ye were. I’ve been 
tramping this boat, with this good man 
houlding me up (for I’m too sick to stand), 
this half hour. Down wid ye now below 
stairs with the rest, where I can keep me 
eye on ye. Come down, I say!’’ 


KILLYKINICK 


IX. — Obeying Orders. 

“Down below!” the words struck harshly 
on Dan’s ear; for good old Brother Bart 
was more used to obedience than command, 
and he was sick and shaken and doing his 
guardian duty under sore stress and strain 
to-night. 

“Go below! What for?” asked Dan, 
shortly. “I’m all right up here, Brother 
Bart. I can’t stand being packed in 
downstairs.” 

“Stand it or not. I’ll not lave ye up 
here,” said Brother Bart, resolutely. 
“Down with ye, Dan Dolan! Ye were 
put under my orders, and ye’ll have to 
mind my words.” 

“Not when it means being sick as a 
dog all night,” answered Dan, rebelliously. 
“I tell you I can’t stand it down in that 
stuffy place below, and I won’t. I am 
going to stay up here.” 

“And is that the way ye talk?” said 
Brother Bart, who had a spirit of his 
own. “And it’s only what I might look 
for, ye graceless young reprobate! God 
[96] 


KILLYKINICK 


knows it was sore against my will that I 
brought ye with me, Dan Dolan; for I 
knew ye’d be a sore trial first to last. But 
I had to obey them that are above me. 
Stay, then, if you will against my word; 
for it’s all I have to hold ye, since ye are 
beyant any rule or law. — We’ll go back, 
my man,” continued Brother Bart to the 
burly deck hand who had been supporting 
his swaying form. ‘‘Help me to get down 
to my bed, in God’s name; for I am that 
sick I can scarcely see.” 

And Brother Bart tottered away, leaving 
Dan standing hot and defiant by his new 
friend, Mr. Wirt. 

“Sorry to have made trouble for you,” 
said that gentleman; ‘‘but when I found 
that good old man wandering sick and 
distracted over the boat, stirring up every- 
one in search of a lost boy, there was 
nothing to do but give him the tip.” 

‘‘Freddy may stand it,” said Dan, 
fiercely; ‘‘but I won’t be grannied. What 
harm is there in staying up here?” 

‘‘None at all from our standpoint,” was 
the reply; “but the good old gentleman 
looks at things in another light. You’re 
under his orders,” he said; and there was 


KILLYKINICK 


a faint, mocking note in the words, that 
Dan was keen enough to hear*. He was 
hearing other things too, — the pant of 
the engines, the throb of the pulsing 
mechanism that was bearing him on 
through darkness lit only by the radiance 
of those sweeping worlds above; but that 
mocking note in his new friend’s voice 
rose over all. 

“Orders!” he repeated angrily. “ I bet 
you wouldn’t take any such orders if you 
were a boy.” 

“No, I wouldn’t, and I didn’t” (there 
was a slight change in the speaker’s voice 
as he paused to light a cigar) , ‘ ‘ and you 
see where it left me.” 

“Where?” asked Dan, curiously. 

“Adrift,” was the answer, — “like this 
big boat would be if there was no one to 
command: beyond rule and law, as that 
good old friend of yours said just now,, — 
beyond rule and law.” 

“Beyond rule and law, — rule and law.” 
The words began to hammer somehow on 
Dan’s head and heart as he recalled with 
waking remorse poor Brother Bart totter- 
ing away in the darkness, — Brother Bart, 
who, as Dan knew, was only doing his duty 

[98] 


KILLYKINICK 


faithfully, to the boy under his care, — 
Brother Bart, who, like the steamboat, 
like the stars, was obeying. 

For a moment or two Mr. Wirt puffed 
at his cigar silently, while the fierce fire 
that had blazed up in Dan’s breast sank 
into bounds, .mastered by the boy’s better 
self, even as he had seen Nature’s fierce 
forces of flame and steam mastered by 
higher powers . to-day. 

. “In short,’’ said Mr. Wirt at last, as 
tf he had been having thoughts of his 
own, “I am a derelict, my boy.” 

“What’s that?” asked Dan, who had 
never heard the word before. 

“A ship adrift, abandoned by captain 
and crew, — a wreck that tosses .on the 
sea, a peril to all that come near it. There 
is nothing a good sailor dreads more than 
a derelict, and he makes it his business to 
sink it promptly whenever he can.” 

“Couldn’t he tow it into port?” asked 
Dan, with interest. 

“Not worth the trouble,” was the grim 
answer. 

“Jing!” said Dan. “I’d try it, sure.” 

“Would you?” asked Mr. Wirt. . 

“Yes,” replied Dan, decidedly. “If a 

[99] 


KILLYKINICK 


ship can float, it must be worth some- 
thing. I’d try to fling a hawser about it 
somewhere, and haul it in and dry-dock 
it to find out what was wrong. I’ve seen 
an oyster boat, that was leaking at every 
seam, calked and patched and painted to 
be good as new.” ♦ 

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Wirt, with a short 
laugh; “but the oyster boats don’t go 
very far a-sea, and derelicts drift beyond 
hope or help. I am that kind, and if-^ 
if” (the speaker hesitated for a moment),— 
“if I had a boy like you, I wouldn’t take 
any chances with him; I’d keep him off 
my decks; I’d put him on a sound ship 
with a wise captain and a steady crew, 
and he should be under orders until — 
well, until he had learned to sail midnight 
seas like this by the light of the stars.” 
And, tossing his half-smoked cigar into 
the water, Mr. Wirt turned abruptly away 
without any further “good-night.” 

“ He’s a queer one,” said Dan to himself, 
as he stared after the tall figure disap- 
pearing in the darkness. “I don’t know 
what he means by his drifting and derelicts, 
but I guess it’s a sort of talk about breaking 
laws and rules like I am doing up here 

[ lOO ] 


KILLYKINICK 


to-night. .Gee! but Brother Bart is an 
old granny, stirring up all this fuss about 
nothing; and I’ll be dead sick, I know. 
But I’m under orders” (Dan stretched 
his 'arms over his head, and, drawing a 
long, reluctant sigh, took a last look at 
the stars), “and I guess I’ll have to go.” 

And he went, making his way with some 
difficulty over the swaying decks and 
down steep stairs where the footing was 
more perilous than the heights of Old Top; 
through long stretches of gorgeous .saloons 
whence all the life and gayety had de- 
parted; for, despite the stars, the sea was 
rough to-night, and old Neptune under a 
friendly smile was doing his worst. 

Jim and Dud, sturdy fellows that they 
were, had somewhat recovered their equili- 
brium and were dozing fitfully; but little 
Freddy was still white and wretched; and 
poor Brother Bart, all the ruddy glow gone 
from his face, lay with his hands clasping 
his Rosary, very sick indeed. 

“Say your prayers as well as ye can, 
laddie,” he moaned to that small sufferer. 
“The Lord be merciful to us both if we’re 
not to see the morning light! — Ah, are 
ye back, Dan Dolan?” as his eyes fell 


KILLYKINICK 


upon the wandering sheep of his flock 
standing beside him. “May God forgive 
ye for this night’s work! It was the look- 
ing for ye that killed me entirely.” 

“O Brother Bart, no, you’re not as /bad 
as that!” said Dan, remorsefully; “but 
I’m down here now to take care of you 
and Freddy, and you see if I don’t do it 
right.” 

And Dan, who in the old days of Tabby 
and the blue teapot had watched with and 
waited on Aunt Winnie through many a 
night of pain, proved as good as his word. 
It was as close and hot and stuffy as he had 
foreseen; the big boat plunged and rolled 
so that it was hard to keep his footing; at 
times he himself grew so sick that he 
could scarcely steady his helping hand, 
but he never gave up his job. He bathed 
poor Brother Bart’s aching head with all 
a woman’s tenderness; bandaged Freddy’s 
throbbing temples with the cold compress 
that sent him off to sleep; made dizzy 
forays into unknown domestic depart- 
ments for cracked ice and soda water; 
shocked Brother Bart out of what he 
believed his last agony by reporting every- 
one on the boat in “the same fix.” 

[ 102 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“We’ll be in smooth water, the men say, 
by morning; and then you’ll be all right, 
Brother Bart, bet me bathe your head 
some more, and try to go to sleep.” 

And when at last Brother Bart did fall 
asleep in the grey glimmer of the early 
dawn, it was a very pale, shaking, dizzy 
Dan that crept out on the open deck 
beyond the staterooms for a breath of 
fresh air. He could not have climbed to 
forbidden heights now even if he would. 
But they were in smooth waters, and the 
boat was pushing on to a sandy point, 
where a branch railroad came down to the 
shore. A dozen or more passengers were 
preparing to land; among them was Mr. 
Wirt, with a gun slung to his shoulder, a 
knapsack on his back, and his two great 
tawny dogs pulling in their leashes im- 
patiently, — all evidently ready for a sum- 
mer in the wilds. 

Dan felt too weak and sick for conver- 
sation until Mr. Wirt’s eye fell upon the 
pale,, trembling boy, who, with head bared 
to the morning breeze, was clinging weakly 
to an awning post. 

“Why, hello, my lad!” said the gentle- 
man. “What’s the matter. I thought you 

[ 103 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


were all right when I saw you last up 
above.” 

“I was,” answered Dan, grimly. “But 
I came down, and, jing! I’ve had a night 
of it, with Brother Bart and Freddy both 
dead sick on my hands.” 

“And you nursed them all night?” 
(There was an odd tremor in the speaker’s 
voice.) “Are they better this morning? ” 

“Yes,” answered Dan. “They are all 
right now, sleeping like tops; but they 
had a tough time. It was lucky I gave 
up and came down to look after them.” 

“So you obeyed orders, after all. And 
now you’re all broken up yourself?” said 
the gentleman, compassionately. 

“Pooh, no!” was the sturdy answer. 
“I don’t break up so easily. I’ll be all 
right, too, in a little while, — after I’ve 
had more of this fresh air. Going to get 
off here? — ” as the boat pushed up to the 
wharf. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Wirt. “I’m off to the 
woods for a few weeks; but — but maybe 
you will see me again later. Meanwhile 
what did the little fellow call you?” 

“Dan, — my name is Dan Dolan,” was 
the answer. 


I 104 ] 


KIL^LYKINICK 

“Then good-bye, Dan!” Mr. Wirt’s 
shapely hand closed over the boy’s in a 
strong pressure. “You’ve given me a 
lesson, Dan, — the first I’ve learned for 
many a year. I won’t forget you.” And 
he was off with his dogs across the gangway 
to the shore just flushing with the morning 
light. 

The worst was over; and Dan, worn 
out with his night of watching, was glad 
to creep into his “packing box” of a 
stateroom, and, flinging himself in his 
berth, dropped off to sleep, — a sleep full 
of strange dreams. They were wild and 
troubled dreams at first. He was down 
in black depths where, stripped to the 
waist, he was working amid roaring fires 
and hissing steam; he was out on a dark 
wide ocean, striving to fling a rope to a 
wreck drifting helplessly amid thundering 
breakers ; he was up on a wind-swept 
deck, with Brother Bart’s shaking grasp 
•dragging him down below. Then suddenly 
the picture changed: it was not Brother 
Bart but old Father Mack whose trembling 
hand was upon his arm, guiding him 
through the leafy shadows of the college 
walk where they had last talked together. 

f 105 ] 


KILLYKINICK 

Beyond and above them was the dazzling 
glory of the stars, those sweeping worlds 
on which the young dreamer had looked 
last night. But as he walked on now, the 
leafy shadows seemed to grow into arched 
and pillared aisles rising far, far above 
him, and the stars were but the countless 
tapers on a mighty altar reaching to 
heights he could not see ; and Aunt 
Winnie was kneeling on the step, — old 
Aunt Winnie, with clasped hands and 
uplifted eyes. Then the guiding hand 
seemed to tighten on his arm, and it was 
Brother Bart again beside him, — Brother 
Bart, his sturdy, ruddy self again, shaking 
him awake. 

“I hate to rouse ye, Danny lad” (there 
was a new friendliness in the old man’s 
tone), “for it was the long, hard night 
ye had with us; but we’re to get off here. 
Praise be to God, our killing journey is 
nearly done!” 

And Dan stumbled out hurriedly to the 
deck, to find the ‘boat pushing into the 
harbor of a quaint old town, whose roofs 
and spires were glittering in the noonday 
sunshine. Pretty sailboats were flitting 
hither and thither on sunny wings; the 
f io6] 


KILLYKINICK 


white stretch of beach was gay with 
bathers ; the full notes of an orchestra 
came from the band stand on the jutting 
pier. 

“ Jing!” exclaimed Dan, in amazement at 
such a festive scene. ‘ ‘ Is this Killykinick ? ’ ’ 

“No,” was Dud Fielding’s surly answer. 
“I wish it was. But I mean to cut over 
here to the Fosters whenever I can. This 
is Beach Cliff, where we have to take a 
sailboat to Killykinick. And,’* Dud went 
on, with deepening disgust, “I bet it’s 
that old tub that is signalling to us now.” 

Dan’s eyes, following Dud’s sullen gaze, 
saw, among the gaily painted pleasure 
craft moored at the wharfs, a clumsy 
little boat with rusty sides and dingy 
sail. An old man stood in the stern waving 
a tattered flag that, caught out by the 
breeze, showed in large faded letters — 
Killykinick. 


107 


KILLYKINICK 


X. — ^On the “Sary Ann ” ^ 

“It’s the sign,’’ said Brother Bart grate- 
fully, as he caught sight of the fluttering 
pennant. “He was to wave the flag to us 
so we would know the boat. Keep together 
now, boys,’’ continued their anxious 
guardian, who was a little bewildered by a 
rush and struggle to which he was not 
accustomed. “Ah, God help them that 
have to push their way in a world like this ! 
Hold to my hand, laddie, or ye’ll be 
tramped down. Straight behind me now, 
the rest of ye, so ye won’t be lost.’’ 

And, marshalling his boyish force. 
Brother Bart pressed on through the 
hurrying throngs that surged over gang- 
way (for it was the height of the holiday 
season) until he reached the shabby little 
boat whose occupant was a very old man 
with a face brown and wrinkled as tanned 
leather. A long scar across his cheek had 
twisted his mouth into a crooked smile. 
He spat a large quid of tobacco into the 
water, and greeted his passengers with an 
old sea dog’s growl; 

[ io8 1 


KILLYKINICK 


“Been waitin’ more than an hour for 
ye, but. that consarned boat ain’t never 
on time! Hit some pretty rough weather, 
I reckon, out at sea?’’ 

“We did,’’ answered Brother Bart, 
with feeling. “It’s the mercy of God 
we’re alive to tell the tale. In with ye, 
boys, and sit steady. Take the middle of 
the boat, laddie, and hold to Dan. Give 
me a hand to help me in; for I’m* weak 
and shaking yet. The Lord’s will be done, 
but I never thought to be sailing the seas 
in a cockleshell like this,’’ added the good 
man, as the boat rocked under his sturdy 
•weight when he sank heavily into his place. 

“I say- so, too. Let’s hire something 
better,” replied Dud Phelding, eagerly. 

“Thar ain’t nothing better or safer 
than this here ‘Sary Ann’ along the shore,” 
said the boat’s master, grimly. “I sot 
every timber in her myself. She ain’t got 
a crack or a creak in her. I keeled her and 
calked her, and I’ll lay her agin any of 
them painted and gilded play-toys to 
weather the toughest gale on this here 
. coast. You’re as safe in the ‘Sary Ann,’ 
Padre, as if you were in church saying 
your prayers.” 

[ 109 ] 

8 


KILLYKINICK 


“I’m no Padre,’’ disclaimed Brother 
Bart, hastily. “I’m only an humble lay- 
brother, my good man, that has come to 
take care of these boys.’’ 

“Brother or Father, it’s all the same to 
me,’’ was the gruff answer. “I’m a hard- 
shell Baptist myself, but I’ve only good 
feelings to your kind. My old captain was 
one of you, and never a better man walked 
the deck. Now, duck, my lads, while I 
swing out the sail and we’ll be off.’’ 

The passengers ducked their heads 
hurriedly while the ‘Sary Ann’s’ boom 
swung around. Her tawny sail caught 
the wind, and she was off with a light, • 
swift grace that her looks belied. 

“Golly, she can clip it!’’ exclaimed Jim 
Norris, who had a home on the Chesapeake 
and knew all about a boat. “What sort 
of a rig is she, anyhow?’’ 

“Mixed like good terbacker,’’ briefly 
answered the owner, as he leaned back 
comfortably at the helm and bit off another 
chew. “Sloop, skiff, outrigger, lugger, — 
she’s got the good points of all and none 
of their kicks. Not that she ain’t got a ' 
spirit of her own. Every boat worth any- 
thing hez. Thar’s days when she takes the 
[ no ] 


KILLYKINICK 


wind and thar’s no holdin’ her. You jest 
have to let her spread her* wings to it and 
go. But, Lord, let that same wind begin 
to growl and mutter, let them waves 
begin to cap and swell, and the ‘Bary Ann’ 
is ready for them, you bet. She will 
drop all her fun and frolic, and scud along 
brave and bare agin the wildest gale that 
ever lashed a coast. And- them young 
bloods over yon laugh at her,” continued 
the “Sary Ann’s” owner, glowering at the 
gay buildings of the fashionable “boat 
cfub” they were just now passing. “They 
call her the ‘ Corsair, ’ which is np Christian 
name to give an honest boat.” 

“You’re right,” said Brother Bart; 
“and, though you haven’t the true faith, 
you seem to be a Christian yourself. 
What is your name, my good man?” 

“Jeroboam Jimson,” was the answer. 
“ Leastways #that was what I was chris- 
tened, my mother going in heavy for 
Scripture names. I had a twin brother 
Nebuchanezzar. Sort of mouth-filling for 
general use, so we was naturally shortened 
down to Neb and Jeb. , Most folks call 
me Jeb yet.” 

“It comes easier,” said Brother Bart; 


KILLYKINICK 


““though I’d never think of giving it to a 
man of your years. It seems a pity, with 
the Litany of the Saints convenient, to 
have to go back so far for a name. But that 
is no fault' of yours, as God knows. Have 
you been living long in this place we are 
going to?” 

“More than five and forty years,” was 
the answer, — “since the ‘Lady Jane’ 
struck the rocks off Killykinick, November 
27, 1865, I was second mate to old Captain 
Kane; and I stood by him until last May, 
when he took the cruise that every mah 
has to make by himself. And I’m standing 
by his ship ’cording to orders yet. ‘ Blood 
is thicker than water, mate, he says to me; 
‘I’ve got to leave all that I have to little 
Polly Raynor’s boy, but you’re to stick 
to the ship as long as you live. I’ve hed 
that put down in the log with my name to 
it^ and priest and lawyer and doctor as 
witness. You’re Captain Jeroboam Jimson 
of the “Lady Jane,” in my place, and thar 
ain’t no land sharks nor water sharks can 
bother ye.’ I lay that’s the chap he called 
Polly’s boy,” said Captain Jeb, turning his 
eyes on Freddy, who, seated at Brother 
Bart’s side, had been listening, with flatter- 


KILLYKINICK 


ing interest, to the old sailor’s conversation. 

“Yes,” he spoke up eagerly, “my 
mother was Polly. Did you know her?” 

“I did,” said Captain Jeb, nodding. 
“ vShe came down here once as a bit of a girl, 
dancing over the sands like a water kelpie. 
The old Captain didn’t care much for 
women folks, but he was sot on her sure. 
Then she come down agin as a bride, purty 
and shy and sweet; but the old man warn’t 
so pleased then, — growled he didn’t know 
what girls wanted to get married for, 
nohow. So you’re her boy!” The old 
man’s eyes softened as they rested on 
Freddy. “ You’ve got a sort of look of her, 
though you ain’t as pretty, — not nigh.” 

Meantime the “Sary Ann,” her tawny 
sail swelling in the wind, had left the gay 
beach and bathers and boat club of Beach 
Cliff, and was making out into the wide 
blue open, taking the swell of the waves 
like a sea bird on the wing. 

“Easy now, lass!” cautioned Captain 
Jeb, as they neared a white line of breakers, 
and he stood up firm and strong at the 
helm.. “Steady, all of you younkers; for 
we’re crossing the bar. Many a good ship 
has left her bones on this same reef. Easy, 


KILLYKINICK 


‘Sary Ann’ ! It’s no place for fooling round 
here.” 

And, as if to emphasize his words, the 
black shadow of a wrecked ship rose gaunt 
and grim before them. 

“Struck the reef two months ago,” 
explained the Captain, with eye and hand 
still steady on his helm. “Can’t get her 
off. Captain fool enough to try Beach 
Cliff Harbor without a native pilot ! Why, 
thar ain’t no books nor charts can tell you 
nothing ’bout navigating round these here 
islands: you have to larn it yourself. It’s 
the deceivingest stretch along the whole 
Atlantic coast. Thar’s times when this 
here bar, that is biling deep with water 
now, is bare enough for one of 'you chaps 
to walk across without wetting your knees. 
Easy now, ‘Sary Ann’ ! Ketch hold of that 
rope, younker, and steady the sail a bit. 
So thar, we’re over the shoals. Now clip 
it, my lass” (and the old man swung the 
sail free), — “clip it fast as you like for 
Killykinick.” 

And, almost as if she could hear, the 
“Sary Ann” leaped forward with the 
bulging sail, and was off at the word; while 
Captain Jeb, the harbor reef safely passed. 


KILLYKINICK 


leaned back in his boat and pointed out to 
his young passengers (for even the elegant 
Dud was roused into eager curiosity) the 
various things of interest on their way: 
the light ship, the lighthouses, the fishing 
fleet stretching dim and hazy on the far 
horizon, the great ocean liner only a faint 
shadow trailing a cloud of smoke in the 
blue distance. 

“Them big fellows give us the go by now, 
though time was when they used to come 
from far and near: all kinds— Spanish, 
Portugee, Bast Indian. Them was the 
whaling days, when Beach Cliff was one of 
the greatest places on the coast. She stands 
out so far she hed the first bite at things. 
All the sailing ships made for snug harbor 
here. But, betwixt the steamboats and the 
railroads gobbling up everything, and the 
earth itself taking to spouting oil, things 
are pretty dead and gone here now.” 

“But lots of fine folks come in the 
summer time,” said Dud. 

“And there’s a church!” exclaimed 
Brother Bart, who had caught a passing 
glimpse of a cross-crowned spire. “Thank 
God we’ll not be beyond the light and 
truth entirely! You’re to take us to Mass 

[115] 


KILLYKINICK 


every Sunday, my good man; and we 
are to give you a dollar for the trouble 
of it, to say nothing of the blessing upon 
your own soul. Were you ever at Mass?” 

“Never,” answered Captain Jeb. 

“Ah, God help you, poor man!” said 
Brother Bart. “Sure we never know our 
own blessings till we talk with them that’s 
left in the darkness. But it’s not too late 
for the grace of Heaven to reach you yet. 
Never been to Mass! Well, well, well!” 
Brother Bart shook his head, and, as if 
unable to cope with such hopeless religious 
dearth, relapsed into silence. 4 

“Is it much further to Killykinick? ” 
asked Dan, who, with shining eyes had 
been taking in all this novel experience. 
“Looks like we’re heading out to nowhere.” 

The “Sary Ann,” with the wind full 
in her sail, seemed bearing off into sunlit 
distance, where sky and sea met. There 
was a faint, shadowy line to the left; and 
just beyond, a dim pencil point pierced 
the cloudless blue. 

“That’s a lighthouse, isn’t it?” asked 
Jim, who had a sailor’s eye. 

“Yes,” growled Captain Jeb, his leathery 
face darkening. “Why they wanted to 

[ ii6] 


KILLYKINICK 


set up that consarned thing just across 
from Killykinick, I don’t know. Hedn’t 
we been showing a light thar for nigh onto 
fifty years? But some of these know-alls 
come along and said it wasn’t the right 
kind; it ought er blink. And they made the 
old captain pull down the light that he had 
been burning steady and true, and the 
Government sot up that thar newfangled 
thing a flashing by clockwork on Numskull 
Nob. It did make the old man hot, sure. 
‘Shet the window, mate,’ he said to me 
when he was dying and wanted air badly. 
‘I can’t go off in peace with that devilish 
thing on Numskull Nob a winking at me.’ 
Duck agin, all hands ! ‘ Sary Ann ’ swings 
around here. Thar’s Killykinick to 
starboard!” 

And all hands “ducked” as rope and 
canvas rattled under Captain Jeb’s guiding 
hand; and the “Sary Ann” swept from 
her dancing course to the boundless blue 
towards the shadowy line and dim pencil 
point now growing into graceful lighthouse 
and rocky shore. Numskull Nob, jutting 
up from a hidden reef, over which a line of 
white-capped breakers was booming thun- 
derously, seemed to justify the presence 

[ 117 1 


KILLYKINICK 


of the modern light that warned off closer 
approach to the island ; for the stretch of 
water that lay between was a treacherous 
shoal where many a good ship had stranded 
in years gone by, when Killykinick was 
only a jagged ledge of rock where the sea 
birds nested and man had no place. But 
things had changed now. A rude but 
sturdy breakwater made a miniature harbor 
in which several small boats floated at 
their moorings; a whitewashed wharf 
jutted out into the waves; the stretch of 
rocky shore beyond had been roughly 
terraced into easy approach. 

“Easy now, boys, — easy!” warned 
Brother Bart anxiously, as the “Sary 
Ann” grated against her home pier, and 
Captain Jeroboam proceeded to make 
fast. “Don’t be leaping off till you know 
the way.” 

But Brother Bart might have called to 
the dashing waves. This Killykinick was 
very different from the desert they had 
expected; and, with shouts of delight from 
Jim, Dud and Dan, even little Freddy 
sprang ashore. Shrubs and trees of strange 
growth nodded and waved amid the rocks; 
here and there in sheltered crannies were 
f ii8] 


KILLYKINICK 


beds of blooming flowers ; and in the lee of 
a towering rock that kept off the fury of 
storm and wind stood the very queerest 
house the young explorers had ever seen. 


KILLYKINICK 


XI. — At KilIvYkinick. 

It was a ship, — a ship with its keel settled 
deep in the sand, and held immovable 
against wind and storm by a rudely built 
foundation wall of broken rock. The sun- y 
light blinked cheerfully from the dozen 
portholes; the jutting prow bore the 
weather-worn figurehead of the “Lady 
Jane,” — minus a nose and arm, it is true, 
but holding her post bravely still. Stout 
canvas, that could be pegged down or 
lifted into breezy shelter, roofed the deck, 
from which arose the “lookout,” a sort of 
light tower built around a mast that upheld 
a big ship lantern; while the Stars and 
Stripes floated in glory over all. 

For a moment the four young travellers ■ 
stared breathless at this remarkable edifice, 
while Freddy eagerly explained: ] 

“It’s my Great-uncle Joe’s ship that was , 
wrecked here on Killykinick. He had \ 
sailed in her for years and loved her, and 
he didn’t want to leave her to fall to pieces i 
on the rocks; and so he got a lot of men, 
with chains and ropes and things, and 


KILLYKINICK 


moved her up here and made her into a 
house.” 

And a first-class house the “Lady Jane” 
made, as all the boys agreed when they 
proceeded to investigate Great-uncle Joe’s 
legacy. True, there was a lack of modern 
conveniences. The sea lapping the sands 
to the right was the only bath-room, but 
what finer one could a boy ask? There was 
neither dining room nor kitchen; only the 
“galley,” as Captain Jeb, who came up 
shortly to do the honors of this establish- 
ment, explained to his guests. The 
“galley” was a queer little narrow place 
in the stern, lined with pots and pans and 
dishes scoured to a shine, and pre.sided over 
by another old man more crooked and 
leathery- visaged than Captain Jeb, and 
who seemed too deep in the concoction 
of some savory mixture simmering on his 
charcoal stove to give look or word to the 
newcomers who crowded around him. 

“That is Neb,” said his brother, in brief 
introduction. “He don’t hev much to say, 
^ but you mustn’t mind that. It ain’t been 
altogether clear weather in his upper deck 
since he shipped with a durned pirate of a 
captain’ that laid his head open with a 
[ I2I ] 


KILLYKINICK 


marline spike; but for a cook, he can’t be 
beat by any steward afloat or ashore. Jest 
you wait till he doses out that clam- 
chowder he’s making now!” 

Then there was the long, low cabin 
that stretched the full length of the ‘ ‘ Lady 
Jane,” and that — with its four cosy bunks 
made up shipshape, its big table, its swing- 
ing lamp, its soft bulging chairs (for Great- 
uncle Joe had been a man of solid weight 
as well as worth) — was just the place for 
boys to disport themselves in without fear 
of doing damage. All about were most 
interesting things for curious young eyes to 
see and busy Angers to handle : telescope, 
compass, speaking trumpet, log, and lead 
and line that had done duty in many a 
distant sea; spears, bows and arrowheads 
traded for on savage islands; Chinese 
ivories and lacquered boxes from Japan. 
A white bearskin and walrus tusk told of 
an early venture into the frozen North, 
when bold men w^ere first drawn to its 
darkness and mystery ; while Buddha 
from an Eastern temple, squatting shut- 
eyed on a shelf, roused good old Brother 
Bart into holy horror. 

“I never thought to be under the same 


KILLYKINICK 


roof with a hay then idol. Put it away, my 
man, — put it out of sight while I’m in yer 
house; for I can’t stand the looks of it. 
I’ll be after smashing it into bits if ye lave 
it under me eyes.” 

And his indignation was appeased only 
by the sight of the Captain’s room, which 
had been respectfully assigned to the 
“Padre,” as" Captain Jeb persisted in 
calling his older guest. 

Here Great-uncle Joe had treasures rare 
indeed in the good Brother’s eye: a 
wonderful crucifix of ivory and ebony; 
the silver altar lamp of an old Spanish 
monastery; a Madonna in dull tints that 
still bore traces of a master hand; a rosary, 
whose well-worn beads made Brother Bart’s 
pious heart warm. 

“Indeed he was a God-fearing man I’m 
sure, this uncle of laddie’s.” 

“He was,” agreed Captain Jeb; “a 
little rough-talking sometimes, but all 
sailors are.” 

“Well, it’s a rough life,” said Brother 
Bart, recalling his own late experience. 
“It’s little chance it gives you to think 
or pray. But the old man ye talk of 
prayed; I am sure of that. The beads here 
bear token of it.” [123] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Aye,” answered Captain Jeb. “He 
held to them to the last as tight as if 
they was an anchor chain, — why I don’t 
know.” 

“That’s yer ignorance, poor man!” 
said Brother Bart, compassionately. “Ye 
should pray morning and evening for 
light, and perhaps ye’ll be given the grace 
to know what the hould of blessed beads 
is to a dying hand. Now, if ye don’t 
mind. I’ll rest a bit in this quiet place, 
and try to say me own prayers that I 
missed last night; for it was a sore trying 
time to me, both body and soul. There’s 
no harm can come to the boys, now that 
they are safe here.” 

“I wouldn’t sweap to four younkers 
like them anywhere,” was the grim answer. 
“But ye can rest easy. Padre: I’ll keep 
an eye on them, never fear.” And, closing 
the old Captain’s door on his anxious 
guest. Captain Jeb proceeded to “keep 
an eye ’ ’ on the boys who were exploring 
Killykinick in every direction. 

As it had little more than half a mile 
of visible surface, the exploration was 
naturally limited; but there was a “deal 
more below,” as Captain Jeb assured 

[ 124] 


KILLYKINICK 


them, — reefs and shoals stretching out in 
every direction, and widening every year 
with the silt carried down from the shore. 
There were one or two wide hollows 
between the rocks, where that same silt, 
top-dressed with richer earth imported 
from more favored spots by Captain Jeb, 
served as kitchen garden, in which beans, 
cabbages and potatoes made a promising 
show. On another sheltered slope, green 
with coarse grass, brown Betty w^as 
pasturing peacefully; while in a hen- 
house beyond there was clucking and 
cackling, cheerfully suggestive of chickens 
and eggs. 

“We used to hev mostly ship rations,” 
said Captain Jeb. “But the old man got 
sort of picky and choosy these last years, 
and turned again the hard-tack and old 
hoss meat that had been good enough 
for him before. So I got a few boat-loads 
of good earth and took to growing things. 
And things do grow here for sure, if you 
only give them a chance. All they want 
is root hold; the sun and the air and the 
soft mists do the rest.” 

Then there was the pump house; for 
even the toughest of old “salts” must 

[ 125 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


have fresh water. And it had cost many 
a dollar to strike it in these rocks; but 
strike it at last the well-borers did, and 
the pump was roofed and walled in as 
Killykinick’s greatest treasure. 

“Stick round here, younkers, along by 
the ‘Lady Jane’ and the wharf and the 
garden beds, and down by the ‘Sary Ann’ 
and the boats to the south beach, and 
you’ll be pretty safe. But I’m going to 
show you a place whar you can’t do no 
monkey shining, for it ain’t safe at all.” 

And as Captain Jeb spoke he turned 
to the high wall of rock that had backed 
and sheltered the “Lady Jane” for nearly 
fifty years; and, bending his thin form, 
he pushed through a low, narrow opening, 
with, it is needless to say, four wide- 
eyed boys scrambling breathlessly behind 
him, — Dan, as usual, in the lead, pulling 
Freddy on. 

For a moment they stumbled in dark- 
ness, through Vv^hich came a thunderous 
sound like the swell of some mighty organ 
under a master hand; and then they were 
out in light and space again, with the 
ocean cliff of Killykinick arching above 
and around them in a great cave hollowed 
[ 126 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


by the beating waves out of solid rock. 
Wall and roof were rough and jagged, 
broken into points and ledges; but the 
floor was smoothed by the tide into a 
shining, glittering surface, that widened 
out to meet the line of breakers thunder- 
ing white-foamed beyond, their sprays 
scattering in light showers far and near. 

“Jing! Golly! Hooray!” burst from 
the young explorers ; and they would 
have dashed off into bolder investigation 
of this new discovery, but Captain Jeb’s 
sudden trumpet tone withheld them. 

“Stop, — stop thar, younkers! Didn’t I 
tell you this warn’t no play -place? How 
far and how deep these caves stretch only 
the Lord knows; for the sea is gnawing 
them deeper and wider every year. And 
thar’s holes and quicksands that would 
suck you down quicker than that whale 
in the Good Book swallowed Jonah. And 
more than that: in three hours from now 
these here rocks whar we are standing 
will be biling with high tide. This ain’t 
no play-place! I’m showing it to you so 
you’ll know; for thar ain’t no reefs and 
shoals to easy things here. It’s deep sea 
soundings that no line can reach, this 

[ 127 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


nor’east shore. Them waves hev a clean 
sweep of three thousand miles before 
they break here. And thar ain’t to be no 
ducking nor swimming nor monkey shining 
around here unless me or Neb is on watch. 
Neb ain’t much good for navigating since 
he got that hit with the marline spike, but 
for a watch on ship or shore he is all right. 
So them ‘orders’ is all I hev to give; the 
Padre, being a bit nervous, may hev some 
of his own; but thar ain’t nothing to hurt 
four strapping younkers round Killykinick 
except right here. And now, I reckon, it’s 
about time for dinner. I’m ready for some ' 
of Neb’s clam-chowder, I know; and I 
guess you are, too.” 

” Jing! but this is a great place of yours, 
Freddy!” said Dan, as they turned back ' 
to the ship house. ‘‘We could not have 
found a better.” 

‘‘That’s all you know,” scoffed the lordly 
Dud. ‘‘I mean to keep on the right side 
of the old duffer,” he added sotto voce, ‘‘and 
get over to Beach Cliff in that tub of his 
whenever I can. Minnie Foster asked me to 
come; they’ve taken a fine house Mown on 
the shore, and have all sorts of fun — 
dances, picnics, boat races. I’ll get sick of 
[128I 


KILLYKINICK 


things here pretty soon; won’t you, 

“I don’t know about that,” was the 
lazy answer. “About as good a place to 
loaf as you’ll find.” 

“Loaf?” put in Dan. “There isn’t 
going to be any loafing at Killykinick for 
me. I’m for boating and fishing and 
clamming and digging up those garden 
beds. I don’t know what those others 
are paying,” said Dan, who had fallen 
behind with Captain Jeb; “but I’ve got 
no money, and am ready to earn my 
board and keep.” 

“You are?” said the Captain, in surprise. 
“As I -took it, the Padre bunched you all 
together for as fair a figure as I could ask.” 

“Not me,” replied Dan. “These other 
chaps are plutes, and can pay their own 
way; so cut me out of your figures and 
let we work for ‘myself.” 

“Well, that’s sort of curious talk for a 
younker with a high-class schooling,” said 
Captain Jeb, dubiously. “You mean you 
want to hire out?” 

“Yes,” said Dan, remembering Aunt 
Winnie and how doubtful his claim was 
upon vSt. Andrew’s. 

“Thar will be considerable stirring 
[129] 


KILLYKINICK 


round, I’ll allow,” was the reflective 
answer. “I was thinking of getting Billy 
Benson to lend a hand, but if you’d like 
the job of sort of second mate — ” 

“I would,” said Dan. “What is a 
second mate’s work?” 

“Obeying orders,” answered Captain 
Jeb, briefly. 

“That’s dead easy,” said Dan, with a 
grin. 

“Oh, is it?” was the grim rejoinder. 
“Jest you wait, younker, till you’ve stood 
on a toppling deck in the teeth of a nor’- 
easter, with some dunderhead of a captain 
roaring cuss words at you to cut away the 
mast that you know is all that’s keeping 
you out of Davy Jones’ Locker, and then 
you’ll find what obeying orders means. 
But if you want the job here, it’s yours. 
What will you take?” 

“My board and keep,” answered Dan. 

“That ain’t no sort of pay,” said the 
other, gruffly. 

“Wait till you see me eat,” laughed 
Dan; “besides, I was never a second mate 
before. Maybe I won’t make good at it.” 

“ Mebbe you won’t,” said Captain Jeb, his 
mouth stretching into its crooked smile. 

[ 130] 


KILLYKINICK 


'‘You’re ruther young for it, I must admit. 
Still, I like your grit and pluck, younker. 
Most chaps like you are ready to suck at 
anything in reach. What’s your name?” 

“Dan — Dan Dolan,” was the answer. 

“Good!” said Captain Jeb. “It’s a 
square, honest name. You’re shipped, Dan 
Dolan. I guess thar ain’t no need for 
signing papers. This little chap will bear 
witness. You’re shipped as second mate 
in the ‘Lady Jane’ now and here.” 


[ 131 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


XII. — The; Second Mate. — A Confab. 

Then Neb’s bell clanged out for dinner, 
that was served on the long table in the 
cabin, shipshape, but without any of the 
frills used on land. There was a deep 
earthen dish brimming wih chowder, a 
wonderful concoction that only old salts 
like Neb can make. It had a bit of every- 
thing within Killykinick reach — clams and 
fish and pork and potatoes, onions and 
peppers and hard-tack, — all simmering to- 
gether, piping hot, in a most appetizing 
way, even though it had to be “doused” 
out with a tin ladle into yellow bowls. 
There was plenty of good bread, thick 
and “filling”; a platter of bacon and 
greens, and a dish of rice curried after a 
fashion Neb had learned cruising in the 
China Sea. Last of all, and borne in trium- 
phantly by the cook himself, was a big 
smoking “plum duff” with cream sauce. 
There is a base imitation of “duff” known 
to landsmen as batter pudding; but the 
real plum duff of shining golden yellow, 
stuffed full of plums like Jack Horner’s 
pie, is all the sailor’s own. 


132 


KILLYKINICK 


Dan plunged at once into his new 
duties of second mate. Both Jeb and Neb 
were well past seventy, and, while still 
hale and hearty, were not ^o nimble as 
they had been forty years ago; so a second 
mate, with light feet and deft hands, 
proved most helpful, now that the “Lady 
Jane” had taken in a double crew. 

Dan cleared the table and washed the 
dishes with a celerity bewildering to the 
slow brain dulled by the marline ^ spike. 
He swabbed up the galley under Neb’s 
gruff direction; he fed the chickens and 
milked the ccw. For a brief space in two 
summers of his early life, Dan had been 
borne off by an Angel Guardian Society 
to its Fresh Air Home, a plain, old- 
fashioned farmhouse some miles from^ his 
native city; and, being a keen-ey-ed 
youngster even then, he had left swings 
and seesaws to less interested observers, 
and trudged around the fields, the hen- 
house, the dairies, the barns, watching 
the digging and the planting, the feeding 
and the milking ; so that the ways of cows 
and chickens were not altogether beyond 
his ken. 

“Sure and yer board and keep was to 


KILLYKINICK 


be paid for with th’e rest, lad,” said 
Brother Bart, kindly. 

“I don’t want it paid. Brother,” replied 
Dan. ‘‘St Andrew’s does enough for me. 
I’d a heap rather work for myself out here.” 

‘‘Whether that is decent spirit or sinful 
pride I’m not scholar enough to tell,” 
said the good Brother in perplexity. “It 
takes a wise man sometimes to know the 
differ; but I’m thinking” (and there was 
a friendly gleam in the old man’s eyes) 
“ if I was a strapping lad like you, I would 
feel the same. So work your own way if 
you will, Danny lad, and God bless you 
at it!” 

Even heartier was the well-wishing of 
Captain Jeb after his first day’s experience 
with his second officer. 

“You’re all right, matie!” he said, 
slapping Dan on the shoulder. “There 
will be no loafing on your watch, I kin 
see. You’re the clipper build I like. Them 
others ain’t made to stand rough weather; 
but as I take it, you’re a sort of Mother 
Carey chicken that’s been nested in the 
storm. And I don’t think you’ll care to be 
boxed up below with them fair-weather 
chaps. Suppose, being second mate, you 

[134] 


KILLYKINICK 


swing a hammock up on the deck with 
Jeb and me?” 

“Jing! I’d like that first-rate,” was the 
delighted answer. 

And, as Brother Bart had no fear of 
danger on the “Lady Jane,” Dan entered 
on all the privileges of his position. While 
Freddy and Dud and Jim took possession 
of the sheltered cabin, and the dignity 
of the Padre (so it seemed to Captain Jeb) 
demanded the state and privacy of the 
Captain’s room, Dan swung his hammock 
up on deck, where it swayed delightfully 
in the wind, while the stout awnings close- 
reefed in fair weather gave full view of the 
sea and the stars. 

He slept like a child cradled in its 
mother’s arms, and was up betimes to 
plunge into a stretch of sheltered waves, 
still rosy with the sunrise, for a morning 
bath such as no porcelain tub could offer; 
and then to start off with old Neb, who, 
like other wise householders, began the 
day’s work early. Neb might be deaf and 
dull, and, in boyish parlance, a trifle 
“dippy”; but he knew the ways of fish, 
from whales to minnows. He had a boat 
of his own, with its nets and seines and 

[ 135 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


lines, that not even the sturdy old Captain 
in the days of his command dared touch. 

That Dan was allowed to handle the 
oars this first morning proved that the 
second mate had already established him- 
self firmly in Neb’s favor. But, as Wharf 
Rat, Dan had gained some knowledge of 
boats and oars; and he was able to do 
his part under the old salt’s gruff direction. 
They went far out beyond shoal and reef; 
beyond Numskull Nob (whose light was 
still blinking faintly in the glow of the 
sunrise), into deep waters, where the 
fishing fleet could be seen already at work 
in the blue distance hauling up big catches 
of cod, halibut, and other game. 

“That ain’t fishing!’’ growled old Neb. 
“It’s durned mean killing.’’ 

“And isn’t all fishing killing?’’ asked 
Dan, as they flung out their own lines. 

“No,’’ said Neb. “When you cast a 
line, or a harpoon even, you give critters 
a chance; but them durned pirates thar 
don’t give a fish no chance at all.’’ 

“Did you ever cast a harpoon?’’ asked 
Dan, with interest. 

For a moment the dull eyes kindled, 
the dull face brightened, as some deadened 
[ 136 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


memory seemed to stir and waken into 
life; then the shadow fell heavy and 
hopeless again. 

“Mebbe I did, sonny; I don’t know. 
It’s so far back I’ve most forgot.” 

But old Neb’s wits worked in their 
own way still. It took less than an hour 
to catch dinners for the whole Killykinick 
crew; and the fishermen came home to 
find that Captain Jeb had been doing duty 
during their absence, and breakfast was 
ready on the long table in the cabin, — a 
breakfast such as none of the white- 
coated waiters in their late journey could 
beat. 

Captain Jeb knew nothing of cereals, but 
he had a big bowl of mush and a pitcher 
of golden cream; he had bacon and eggs 
frizzled to a charm; he had corndodgers 
and coffee that filled the air with fra- 
grance, — such coffee as old sailors look 
for about break of day after a middle 
watch. Altogether, the crew of the “Lady 
Jane” found things very pleasant, and the 
first week at Killykinick had all the 
interest of life in a newly discovered land. 
Even Brother Bart was argued by the 
two old salts out of his “ narvousness,” 

[ 137 1 


KILLYKINICK 


and laddie was allowed to boat and fish 
and swim in safe waters under Dan’s 
care; while Jim and Dud looked out for 
themselves, as such big fellows should. 

“Thar’s nothing to hurt them off thar,” 
said Captain Jeb, as Brother Bart watched 
his navigators with anxious eyes pushing 
out over a stretch of dancing waves. 
“ ’Twixt here and Numskull Nob you 
could ’most walk ashore. Jest keep them 
out of the Devil’s Jaw, that’s all.” 

“The Lord between us and harm!” 
ejaculated Brother Bart, in pious horror. 
“Wheue is that at all?” 

“The stretch of rock yonder,” replied 
Captain Jeb, nodding to the northeast. 

“And isn’t that an awful name to give 
to a Christian shore?” asked Brother Bart. 

“No worse than them ar suck-holes of 
waves deserves,” was the grim answer. 
“When the high tide sweeps in thar, it 
kerries everything with it, and them caves 
guzzle it all down, nobody knows whar.” 

“Ah, God save us!” said Brother Bart. 
“It’s the quare place to choose aither for 
life or death. I wonder at the laddie’s 
uncle, and ye too, for staying all these 
years. Wouldn’t it be better now, at 

[ 138] 


"i 


KILLYKINICK 


yer time of life, for ye to be saving yer 
soul in quiet and peace, away from the 
winds and the storms and the roaring 
seas that are beating around ye here?” 

“No,” was the gruff answer, — “no. 
Padre. I couldn’t live away from the 
winds and the storms and the waves. 
I couldn’t die away from them neither. 
I’d be like a deep sea-fish washed clean 
ashore. How them landlubbers live with 
everything dead and dull around them, I 
don’t see. I ain’t been out of sight of 
deep water since I shipped as cabin boy 
in the ‘Lady Jane’ nigh onto sixty years 
ago. I’ve been aloft in her rigging with 
the sea beating over her deck and the 
wind whistling so loud ye couldn’t hear 
the cuss words the old man was a-roaring 
through his trumpet below. I’ve held 
her wheel through many a black night 
when no mortal man could tell shore from 
sea. I stood by her when she struck on 
this here reef, ripped open from stem to 
stern; and I’m standing by her now, 
’cording to the old Captain’s orders, yet.” 

“Ye may be right,” said Brother Bart, 
reflectively. “It’s not for me to judge 
ye, Jeroboam.” (Brother Bart never 

[ 139 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


shortened that Scriptural title.) “But 
I bless the Lord day and night that I was 
not called to the sea. — What is it the boys 
are after now!” he added, with an anxious 
glance at the boat in which laddie and 
Dan had ventured out beyond his call. 

“Lobsters,” replied Captain Jeb. 
“Them’s Neb’s lobster pots bobbing up 
thar, and they’ve got a catch that will 
give us a dinner fit for a king.” 

“It’s all to your taste,” said Brother 
Bart. “Barrin’ fast days, of which I say 
nothing, I wouldn’t give a good Irish stew 
for all the fish that ever swam the seas. 
But laddie is thrivin’ on the food here, 
I must say. There’s a red in his cheeks I 
haven’t seen for months; but what with 
the rocks and the seas and the Devil’s Jaw 
foreninst them, it will be the mercy of 
God if I get the four boys safe home.” 

“You needn’t fear,” was the cheering 
assurance. “They are fine, strapping fel- 
lows, and a touch of sailor life won’t harm 
them ; though it’s plain them two big chaps 
and little Polly’s boy are used to softer 
quarters. But for a long voyage I’d ship 
Mate Danny before any of them.” 

“Ye would?” asked Brother Bart. 

[ 140] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Aye,” answered Captain Jeb, deci- 
sively. “Don’t fly no false colors, sticks 
to his job, ready to take hold of anything 
from a lobster pot to a sheet anchor, — 
honest grit straight through. Lord, what 
a ship captain he would make! But they 
don’t teach navigation at your school.” 

“I don’t know,” answered Brother 
Bart. “I’m not book-learned, as I’ve 
told ye; but there’s little that isn’t taught 
at St. Andrew’s that Christian lads ought 
to know; to say nothing of God’s holy 
law, which is best of all ; but of navigation 
I never hear tell. I’m thinking it can’t 
be much good.” 

“No good!” repeated the Captain, 
staring. “Navigation no good! Lord! 
you’re off your reckoning thar sure. Padre. 
Do you know what navigation means? It 
means standing on your quarter-deck and 
making your ship take its way over three 
thousand miles of ocean straight as a bird 
flies to its nest; it means holding her in 
that ar way with the waves a-swelling 
mountain high and the wind a-bellowing 
in your rigging, and a rocky shore with all 
•its teeth set to grind her in your lee; it 
means knowing how to look to the sun 

[ 141 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


and the stars when they’re shining, and 
how to steer without them when the night 
is too black to see. Where would you and 
I be now, Padre, if a navigator that no 
landlubbers could down had not struck 
out without map or chart to find this here 
America of ours hundreds of years ago?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered 
Brother Bart. “But there seems to be 
sense and truth in what you say. It’s a 
pity you haven’t the light of Faith.” 

“What would it do for me?” asked 
Captain Jeb, briefly. 

“What would it do for you?” repeated 
Brother Bart. “Sure it’s in the black 
darkness you are, my man, or ye wouldn’t 
ask. It’s sailing on the sea of life ye are 
without sun or stars, and how ye are to 
find the way to heaven I don’t know. 
Do ye ever say a prayer, Jeroboam?” 

“No,” was the gruff answer. “That’s 
your business. Padre. The Lord don’t 
expect no praying from rough old salts 
like me.” 

“Sure and He does, — He does,” said 
Brother Bart, roused into simple earnest- 
ness. “What is high or low to Him? 
Isn’t He the Lord and Maker of the land 

[ 142 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


and sea? Doesn’t He give ye life and 
breath and strength and health and all 
that ye have? And to stand up like a 
dumb brute under His eye and never give 
Him a word of praise or thanks ! I wonder 
at ye, Jeroboam,— I do indeed! Sure ye’d 
be more dacent to any mortal man that 
gave ye a bit and sup; but what ye’re not 
taught, poor man, ye can’t know. IJsten 
now: ye’re to take us to church to-morrow 
according to your bargain.” 

“Yes,” said the Captain, gruffly; “but 
thar warn’t no bargain about preaching 
and praying and singing.” 

“Sure I don’t ask it,” said Brother 
Bart, sadly. “You’re in haythen dark- 
ness, Jeroboam, and I haven’t the wisdom 
or the knowledge or the holiness to lade 
ye out; but there’s one prayer can be 
said in darkness as well as in light. ^ All 
I ask ye to do is to stand for a moment 
within the church and turn your eyes to 
the lamp that swings like a beacon light 
before the altar and whisper the words 
of that honest man in the Bible that 
didn’t dare to go beyant the holy door, 
‘O God, be merciful to me a sinner!’ 
Will ye do that?” 

[ 143 ] 


KILLVKINICK 


“Wal, since that’s all ye ask of me, 
Padre,” said Captain Jeb, reflectively, “I 
can’t say no. I’ve thought them words 
many a time when the winds was a-howling 
and the seas a-raging, and it looked as if 
I was bound for Davy Jones’ Locker before 
day; but I never knew that was a fair- 
weather prayer. But I’ll say it as you 
ask; and I’ll avow. Padre, that, for 
talking and praying straight to the point, 
you beat any preacher or parson I ever 
heard yet.” ^ 

“Preach, is it!” exclaimed Brother Bart. 
“Sure I never preached in my life, and 
never will. But I’ll hold ye to your word, 
Jeroboam; and, with God’s blessing, we’ll 
be off betimes to-morrow morning. — 
Here come the boys: and. Holy Mother, 
look at the boatful of clawing craythurs 
they have with them!” 

“Lobsters, Brother Bart!” shouted 
Freddy, triumphantly. “Lobsters, Captain 
Jeb! Fine big fellows. Hurry them up, 
Dan! I’m hungry as three bears.” 


KILLYKINICK 


XIII. — At Beach Cliff. 

Brother Bart and his boys were up 
betimes for their Sunday journey. Break- 
fast was soon dispatched, and four sun- 
burned youngsters were ready for their 
trip to town. Dud and Jim, who had been 
lounging around Killykinick in sweaters 
and middies, were spruced up into yoiing 
gentlemen again. Freddy’s rosy cheeks 
were set off by a natty little sailor suit 
and cap; while Dan scarcely recognized 
himself in one of the rigs presented by 
Brother Francis, that bore the stamp of a 
stylish tailor, and that had been sponged 
and pressed and mended by the kind 
old wardrobian until it was quite as good 
as new. 

The day was bright and beautiful, sky 
and sea seemed smiling on each other 
most amicably. The “Sary Ann” was in 
the best of spirits, and the wind in the 
friendliest of moods. 

“Sit steady, boys, and don’t be philan- 
dering!” warned Brother Bart, anxiously. 
“It looks fair and aisy enough, but you 

[ 145 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


can drown in sun as well as storm. Keep 
still there, laddie, or ye’ll be over the 
edge of the boat. Sure it’s an awful thing 
to think that there’s only a board between 
ye and the judgment-seat of God.” 

And Brother Bart shook his head, and 
relapsed into meditation befitting the peril 
of his way; while the ‘‘Sary Ann” swept 
on, past rock and reef and shoal, out into 
the wide blue ocean, where the sunlit 
waves were swelling in joyous freedom, 
until the roofs and spires of Beach Cliff 
rose dimly on the horizon; white- winged 
sails began to flutter into sight; wharves 
and boat-houses came into view, and the 
travellers were back in the busy world of 
men again. 

“It feels good to be on God’s own earth 
again,” said Brother Bart, as he set foot 
on the solid pier, gay just now with a 
holiday crowd; for the morning boat was 
in, and the “Cliff Dwellers,” as the resi- 
dents of the old town were called at livelier 
seaside resorts, were out in force to wel- 
come the new arrivals. 

“This is something fine!” said Dud to 
Jim, as they made their way through the 
chatting, laughing throng, and caught 
[146] 


KILLYKINICK 


the lilt of the music on the beach beyond, 
where bathers, reckless of the church 
bells’ call, were disporting themselves in 
the sunlit waves. “It’s tough, with a 
place like this so near, to be shut up on 
a desert island for a whole vacation. I 
say, Jim, let’s look up the boosters after 
Mass, and see if we can’t get a bid to their 
house for a da)^ or two. We’ll have some 
fun there.’’ 

“I don’t know,’’ answered easy Jim. 
“Killykinick is good enough for me. You 
have to do so much fussing and fixing 
when you are with girls. Still, now we are 
here, we might as well look around us.’’ 

So when Mass in the pretty little church 
was over, and Brother Bart, glad to be 
back under his well-loved altar light, 
lingered at his prayers, the boys, who had 
learned from Captain Jeb that they had 
a couple of hours still on their hands, 
proceeded to explore the quaint old town, 
with its steep, narrow streets, where no 
traffic policemen were needed; for neither 
street cars nor automobiles were allowed 
to intrude. 

In the far long ago, Beach Cliff had 
been a busy and prosperous seaport town. 

[ 147 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


The great sailing vessels of those days, 
after long and perilous voyage, made 
harbor there; the old shipmasters built 
solid homes on the island shores; its 
merchants grew rich on their whaling 
vessels, that went forth to hunt for these 
monsters of the great deep, and came back 
laden with oil and blubber and whalebone 
and ambergris. But all this was changed 
now. Steam had come to supplant the 
white wings that had borne the old ships 
on their wide ocean ways. As Captain 
Jeb said, “the airth had taken to spouting 
up ile,” and made the long whale hunts 
needless and unprofitable. But, though 
it had died to the busy world of commerce 
and trade, the quaint old island town had 
kept a charm all its own, that drew summer 
guests from far and near. 

Dud and Jim made for the resident 
streets, where old Colonial mansions stood 
amid velvety lawns, and queer little 
low-roofed houses were buried in vines 
and flowers. But Dan and Freddy kept 
to the shore and the cliff, where the old 
fishermen had their homes, and things 
were rough and interesting. They stopped 
at an old weather-beaten house that had 

[ 148 1 


KILLYKINICK 


in its low windows all sorts of curious 
things — models of ships and boats, odd 
bits of pottery, rude carvings, old brasses 
and mirrors,^ — the flotsam and jetsam 
from broken homes and broken lives 
that had drifted into this little eddy. 

The proprietor, a bent and grizzled old 
man, who stood smoking at the door, 
noticed the 3^oung strangers. 

“Don’t do business on Sundays; but 
you can step in, young gentlemen, and 
look about you. ’Twon’t cost you a cent; 
and I’ve things you won’t see anywhar else 
on this Atlantic coast, — brass, pottery, 
old silver, old books, old papers, prints of 
rare value and interest. A Harvard 
professor spent two hours the other day 
looking over my collection.’’ • 

“Is it a museum?’’ asked Freddy 
politely, as he and Dan peered doubt- 
fully over the dusky threshold. 

“Wal, no, not exactly; though it’s 
equal to that, sonny. Folks call this here 
Jonah’s junk-shop, — Jonah being my 
Christian name. (I ain’t never had much 
use for any other.) I’ve been here forty 
years, and my father was here before 
me, — buying and selling whatever comes 

[ 149 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


to us. And things do come to us sure, 
from copper kettles that would serve a 
mess of sixty men, down to babies’ 
bonnets.” 

“Babies’ bonnets!” laughed Dan, who, 
with Freddy close behind him, had pushed 
curiously but cautiously into the low, 
dark room, from which opened another ^ 
and another, crowded with strangely 
assorted merchandise. 

“You may laugh,” said the proprietor, 
“but we’ve had more than a dozen trunks 
and boxes filled with such like folderols. 
Some of ’em been here twenty years or 
more, — shawls and bonnets and ball 
dresses, all frills and laces and ribbons; 
baby bonnets, too, all held for duty and 
storage or -wreckage and land knows what. 
Flung the whole lot out for auction last 
year, and the women swarmed like bees 
from the big hotels and the cottages. 
Got bits of yellow lace, they said, for 
ten cents that was worth as many dollars. 
The men folks tried to ‘kick’ about fever 
and small-pox in the old stuff, but not a 
woman would listen. Look at that now!” 
And the speaker paused under a chandelier 
that, even in the dusky dimness, glittered 

[ 150 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


with crystal pendants. “Set that ablaze 
with the fifty candles it was made to hold, 
and I bet a hundred dollars wouldn’t 
have touched it forty years ago. Ye can 
buy it to-morrow for three and a quarter. 
That’s the way things go in Jonah’s junk- 
shop.” 

“And do you ever really sell anything?” 
asked Dan, whose keen business eye, 
being trained by early bargaining for the 
sharp 'needs of life, could see nothing 
in Jonah’s’ collection worth a hard-earned 
dollar. Mirrors with dingy and broken 
frames loomed ghost-like up in the dusky 
corners; tarnished epaulets and sword 
hilts told pathetically of forgotten honors; 
there were clocks, tall and stately, without 
works and pendulum. 

“Sell?” echoed the proprietor. “Of 
course, sonny, we sell considerable, 
specially this time of year when the rich 
folks come around, — folks that ain’t look- 
ing for stuff that’s whole or shiny. And 
they do bite curious, sure, wty, there was 
some sort of a big man come up here in his 
yacht a couple .of years ago that gave 
me twenty-five dollars for a furrin medal, — 
twenty -five dollars cash down. And it 

[151] 


KILLYKINICK 


wasn’t gold or silver neither. Said he 
knew what it was worth, and I didn’t.” 

“Twenty-five dollars!” exclaimed the 
astonished Freddy, — “twenty-five dollars 
for a medal! O Dan, then maybe yours 
is worth something, too.” 

“Pooh, no!” said Dan, “what would 
poor old Nutty be doing with a twenty- 
five dollar medal ? ’ ’ 

The dull eyes of the old junk dealer 
kindled with quick interest. 

“Hev you got a medal?” 'he asked. 
“Where did you get it?” 

“From a batty old sailor man who' 
thought I had done him some good turns,” 
answered Dan. “ Where he got it he didn’t 
say. I don’t think he could remember.” 

And Dan, whose only safe deposit for 
boyish treasures was his jacket pocket, 
pulled out the gift that Freddy had 
refused, and showed it to this new ac- 
quaintance, who, holding it off in his 
horny hand, blinked at it with practised eye. 

“Portyge^ or Spanish, I don’t know 
which it says on that thar rim. Thar 
ain’t much of it silver. Fd have to rub 
it up to be sure of the rest. Date, well 
as I can make out, it’s 1850.” 


KILLYKINICK 


“It is,” said Dan. “I made that much 
out myself.” 

Old Jonah shook his head. 

“Ain’t far enough back. Takes a good 
hundred years to make an antique. Still, 
you can’t tell. The ways of these great 
folks are queer. Last week I sold for five 
dollars a bureau that I was thinking of 
splitting up into firewood ; and the woman 
was as tickled as if she had found a purse 
of money. Said it was Louey Kans. Who 
or what she was I don’t know; mebbe some 
kin of hers. I showed her the break plain, 
for I ain’t no robber; but she said that 
didn’t count a mite, — that she could have 
a new glass put in for ten dollars. Ten 
dollars! Wal, thar ain’t no telling about 
rich folks’ freaks and foolishness; so I 
can’t say nothing about that thar medal. 
It ain’t the kind of thing I’d want to 
gamble on. But if you’d like to leave it 
here on show. I’ll take care of it, I promise 
you; and mebbe some one may come along 
and take a notion to it.” 

“Oh, what’s the good?” said Dan, 
hesitating. 

“Dan, do — do!” pleaded Freddy, who 
saw a chance for the vacation pocket money 

[ 153 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


his chum so sorely lacked. “You might 
get twenty-five dollars for it, Dan.” 

“He might,” said old Jonah; “and 
then agin he mightn’t, sonny. I ain’t 
promising any more big deals like them 
I told you about. But you can’t ever 
tell in this here junk business whar or 
when luck will strike you. It goes hard 
agin my old woman to hev all this here 
dust and cobwebs. She has got as tidy a 
house as you’d ask to see just around the 
corner, — flower garden in front, and every- 
thing shiny. But if I’d let her in here 
with a bucket and broom she’d ruin my 
business forever. It’s the dust and the 
rust and the cobwebs that runs Jonah’s 
junk-shop. But it’s fair and square. I 
put down in writing all folks give me to 
sell, and sign my name to it. If you don’t 
gain nothing, you don’t lose nothing.” 

Dan was thinking fast. Twenty-five 
dollars, — twenty-five dollars ! There was 
only a. chance, it is true; and a very slim 
chance at that. But what would twenty- 
five dollars mean to him, to Aunt Winnie? 
For surel)^ and steadily, in the long, 
pleasant summer days, in the starlit 
watches of the night, his resolution was 

[ 154 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


growing: he must live and work for Aunt. 
Winnie; he could not leave her gentle 
heart to break in its loneliness, while he 
climbed to heights beyond her reach; he 
could not let her die, while he dreamed of 
a future she would never see. Being only 
a boy, Dan did not put the case in just 
such words. He only felt with a fierce 
determination that, in spite of the dull 
pain in his heart at the thought, he must 
give up St. Andrew’s when this brief 
seaside holiday was past, and work for 
Aunt Winnie. And a little ready cash 
to make a new start in Mulligans’ upper 
rooms would help matters immensely. 
Just now he had not money enough for 
a fire in the rustly little stove, or to move 
Aunt Winnie and her old horsehair trunk 
from the Little Sisters. 

“All right ! he said, with sudden resolve. 
“Take the medal and try it.’’ 

And old Jonah, who was not half so 
dull as, for commercial purposes, he looked, 
turned to an old mahogany desk propped 
up on three legs, and gave the young 
owner a duly signed receipt for one silver- 
rimmed bronze medal, date 1850, and the 
business was concluded. 

[ 155 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Suppose you really get twenty-five 
dollars, Dan,” said Freddy, as they 
bade old Jonah good-bye and kept on 
their way. “What will you do with it?” 

“I’m not saying,” replied Dan, mindful 
of his promise to Father Mack. “But I’ll 
start something, you can bet, Freddy!” 

And then they went on down to the 
wharf, where the “Sary Ann” lay at her 
moorings, and Brother Bart was seated on 
a bench in pleasant converse with the Irish 
sexton of the little church, who had been 
showing the friendly old Brother some of 
the sights of the town. 

“Here come my boys now. This is Dan 
Dolan, and this is my own laddie that 
I’ve been telling ye about, Mr. McNally. 
And where — where are the others?” ques- 
tioned Brother Bart, anxiously. 

“I don’t know,” answered Dan, after 
he had reciprocated Mr. McNally’s hearty 
hand-shake. “Dud said something about 
going to the Fosters.” 

“Sure and that isn’t hard to find,” 
said Mr. McNally. “It’s one of the 
biggest places on Main Street, with 
hydrangeas growing like posies all around 
the door. Any one will show ye.” 

[ 156 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Go back for them, Danny lad. Ye 
can leave laddie here with me while ye 
bring the others back ; for the day is 
passing, and we must be sailing home.” 


1 1 


[ 157 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


XIV.— POLIvY. 

Main Street was not hard to find, neither 
seemed the Fosters. A corner druggist 
directed Dan without hesitation to a wide, 
old-fashioned house, surrounded by lawns 
and gardens, in which the hydrangeas — 
blue, pink, purple — were in gorgeous sum- 
mer bloom. But, though the broad porch 
was gay with cushions and hammocks, no 
boys were in sight; and, lifting the latch 
of the iron gate, Dan was proceeding up 
the flower-girdled path to the house, 
when the hall door burst open and a pretty 
little girl came flying down the steps in 
wild alarm. 

“Bobby!” she cried. “My Bobby is 
out! Bobby is gone! Oh, somebody catch 
Bobby, please, — somebody catch my 
Bobby!” 

A gush of song answered the wail. 
Perched upon the biggest and pinkest of 
the hydrangeas was a naughty little 
canary, its head on one side w^arbling 
defiantly in the first thrill of joyous 
freedom. Its deserted mistress paused 
[158] 


KILLYKINICK 


breathlessly. A touch, a movement, she 
knew would send him off into sunlit 
space beyond her reach forever. 

Quick-witted Dan caught on to the 
situation. A well-aimed toss of his cap, 
and the hydrangea blooms were quivering 
under the beat of the captive’s fluttering 
wings. Dan sprang forward and with a 
gentle, cautious hand grasped his prisoner. 

“Oh, oh, oh!’’ was all the little lady 
could cry, clasping her hands rapturously. 
“Don’t — don’t hurt him, please, please!’’ 

“I won’t,’’ was the answer. “But get 
his cage quick; for he’s scared to death 
at my holding him.’’ 

Bobby’s mistress darted into the house 
at the word, and reappeared again in a 
moment with a gilded palace that was 
surely all a bird could ask for. 

“O Bobby, Bobby!’’ she murmured 
reproachfully, as Dan deposited his sub- 
dued and trembling captive behind the 
glittering bars. “When you had this lovely 
new cage and everything you wanted!” 

“No, he hadn’t,” said Dan, conscious 
of a sudden sympathy with this feathered 
prisoner. “He has wings and wants to 
use them.” 


159 


KILLYKINICK 


“But he couldn’t find seed or chickweed 
for himself, and the cats and hawks 
would have had him before morning. Oh, 
I’m so glad to get him back safe I don’t 
know how to thank you for catching him 
for me!’’ And the little lady lifted a pair 
of violet eyes, that were still sparkling with 
tears, to her benefactor’s face. 

“Pooh! It wasn’t anything,’’ said Dan, 
shyly. 

“Yes, it was. You threw your cap fine. 
My brothers couldn’t have done it, I know. 
They would have just laughed and teased, 
and let Bobby fly away forever. You are 
the nicest boy I ever saw,” continued 
Bobby’s mistress, who was at the age when 
young ladies speak their mind frankly. 
“What is your name?” 

“Dan Dolan,” was the reply, with the 
smile that showed Aunt Winnie’s boy at 
his best. “Let me carry your bird cage 
to the house for you. It is too heavy for 
a little girl.” 

“Oh, thank you! But I’m not such a 
little girl as you think: I am nearly ten 
years old,” said the young lady, as Dan 
took up Bobby and his cage, and they 
proceeded up the broad gravelled path to 
[ i6o ] 


KILLYKINICK 


the house; “and my name is Polly 
Forester, and — ” 

“Forester!” blurted out Dan. “Then 
I’m on the wrong track. They told me 
this was the Foster house.” 

“Oh, no!” Miss Polly shook her head, 
that, with its golden brown ringlets, 
looked very much like a flower itself. 
“This has been our house for more than 
a hundred years. My grandfather lived 
here, and my great-grandfather and all 
my grandfathers. One of them fought 
with George Washington; we’ve got his 
sword. Would you like to see it?” asked 
Miss Polly, becoming graciously hospitable 
as they approached the porch. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t time,” answered 
Dan. “You see, I’m looking for two of 
our fellows. We’re a lot of St. Andrew’s 
boys off for the summer, and the boat is 
waiting to take us back to Killykinick.” 

“Oh, are you staying there?” asked the 
young lady, with wide-eyed interest. “ I’ve 
passed it often in dad’s yacht.” 

“Polly dear!” called a sweet voice, and 
a grown-up image of that young person 
came hurriedly out on the porch, — a 
lovely lady, all in soft trailing white and 

[ i6i ] 


KILLYKINICK 


blue ribbons. “What is the matter? Your 
cry woke me out of a sound sleep and put 
me all in a flutter.” 

“O mamma dear, I’m sorry! But it 
was Bobby. He flew out of his cage when 
I was trying to teach him to perch on 
my hand, and' got away. He would have 
gone forever if this nice boy had not 
caught him for me! His name is Dan 
Dolan, mamma, and he is staying at 
Killy kinick with a lot of college boys. 
Dan is looking for the other boys, who 
are at the Fosters; and some one told 
him this was the house, and he came just 
in time to catch my Bobby under his cap, 
and — ’ ’ 

“The Fosters?” interrupted mamma, 
who was used to clearing up things for 
Polly. “Probably you are looking for 
Colonel Foster, who came down last 
week,” she continued, turning a smiling 
face to Dan. “They have rented the 
Pelham cottage for the summer. You 
know where that is, Polly?” 

“Oh, yes!” answered the little lady, 
cheerfully. “You take care of Bobby, 
mamma, and I’ll show Dan the short 
cut through our garden.’’ 

[ 162 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


And she darted ahead through an old- 
fashioned maze, where tall box hedges 
were clipped into queer shapes around 
beds of gay blooming flowers. Then, 
swinging open a vine-wreathed gate, Dan’s 
little guide led into a steep narrow way 
paved with cobblestones. 

“Pelham cottage is just up there,” she 
said, “ at the top of Larboard Lane.” 

“And here the boys come now!” ex- 
claimed Dan, as the sound of familiar 
voices reached his ear, and down the lane 
came a laughing, chattering group, — 
Minna Foster, and her sister Madge and 
brother Jack gleefully escorting Jim and 
Dud back to the boat, and claiming the 
promises of speedy return to Beach Cliff. 

Dan hailed his schoolmates, explained 
his search and his mistake, and they were 
all taking their way down the stony path 
together, — Polly being of the sort to make 
friends at once with every nice boy or 
girl within reach. 

“Isn’t she the cutest thing?” said 
Minna Foster, who had fallen behind 
with Dud. “We have just been dying 
to know them; but her mother is an 
invalid, and doesn’t go out much, though 
[ 163 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


they are the finest people in Beach Cliff, 
■mamma says. They have lots of money, 
and the loveliest old home filled with all 
sorts of beautiful things, and horses and 
carriages and a big yacht.” 

“And Dan Dolan has struck it with 
them,” said Dud, watching Miss Pollys’ 
dancing along loyally by her nice boy’s 
side. “Dan Dolan! Can’t you give them 
a tip about him.” 

“A tip?” echoed Minna, puzzled. 

“ Yes,” said Dud, his brow darkening. 
“People like that don’t want to know 
such low-down chumps as Dan Dolan. 
Why, he’s in St. Andrew’s on charity; 
hasn’t got a decent rag to his back except 
what we give him there; used to shine 
shoes and sell papers on the streets. His 
aunt is in the poorhouse or something 
next to it; he’s just a common tough, 
without a cent to call his own.” 

“Goodness!” gasped Miss Minna. 
“Then what is he doing up here with 
boys like you?” 

“Pushed in,” answered Dud,-, hotly. 
“He has enough nerve to push anywhere. 
St. Andrew’s gives a scholarship at the 
parochial school, and he won it; and, as 

[ 164 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


he hadn’t any place to go this summer,, 
they bunched him in with us. But you 
can see what he is at one look.” 

“Oh, I did, — I did!” murmured Miss 
Minna. “I saw at the very first that he 
was not our sort; but, being with nice 
boys like you, I thought he must be all 
right. He isn’t bad-looking, and such 
nerve for a bootblack! Just look how he 
is making up to little Polly Forester!” 

To an impartial observer it would have 
really seemed the other way. Polly herself 
was “making up” most openly to this 
nicest boy she ever saw. Tripping along 
by Dan’s side, she was extending a general 
invitation, in which Dan was specialized 
above all others. 

“I am going to have a birthday party 
next week, and I want you to come, and 
bring all the other boys from Killykinick.. 
It’s the first party I’ve ever had; but 
mamma is feeling better this year, and 
I’ll be ten years old, and she’s going 
to have things just lovely for me, — music 
and dancing, and ice-cream made into 
flowers and birds, and a Jack Horner pie 
with fine presents in it. Wouldn’t you 
like to come, Dan?” 

[165] 


I 


KILLYKINICK 


“You bet!” was the ready answer; for 
a party of young persons like Miss Polly 
was, from his outlook, a very simple 
affair. “When is it coming off?” 

“Thursday,” said Polly, — “Thursday 
evening at six, in our garden. And you 
needn’t dress up. Boys hate to dress up, 
I know; Tom and Jack won’t go any 
place where they have to wear stiff collars.” 

“I’m with them there,” rejoined Dan. 
“Had to get into one on Commencement 
Day, and never want to try another.” 

“You see, I don’t care for some boys,” 
said the expectant hostess, confidentially. 
“All Tom’s and Jack’s friends are in long 
trousers. Some girls like that, but I don’t: 
they look too grown up, and they stand 
around and teage, and won’t play games, 
and are just horrid. You would play 
games, I’m sure.” 

“Just try me at them,” answered Dan, 
grinning. 

‘ ‘ Oh, I know you would 1 So I want you 
all to come,” said Miss Polly, who, having 
reached her own gateway, paused for a 
general good-bye. “I don’t know your 
names, but I want you all to come with 
Dan to my party.” 

, [ i66 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“If we can get here,” replied Dan. 
“Captain Jeb wouldn’t trust us to sail 
his boat, and I don’t know that he could 
come with us.” ' y 

“ Oh, he will, — he must ! ” persisted Polly. 

“He ain’t the will-and-must kind,” said 
Dan, nodding. 

“Then maybe I can send for you,” the 
little lady went on eagerly. “My cousins 
are coming over from Rockhaven on dad’s 
yacht, and I’ll make them stop at Killy- 
kinick and bring you all with them to 
my party.” 

And, with a gay little nod that included 
all her nice boys, little Miss Polly dis- 
appeared among the hydrangeas ; while 
the others kept on down to the wharf, 
where the “Sary Ann” was already 
swinging out her dingy sail, and Brother 
Bart was growing anxious and nervous. 

Merry good-byes were spoken, and very 
soon the boys were on their homeward 
way, with Beach Cliff slowly vanishing in 
the distance. Dud was rather sullen 
and disappointed; lazy Jim a little tired; 
while Freddy, seated in the bottom of 
the boat, dropped his curly head on 
Brother Bart’s knee and went off to sleep. 

[ 167 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


But to Dan the day had been a most 
pleasant experience, a glimpse of a friendly, 
beautiful world whose gates he had never 
thought to pass; and Aunt Winnie’s Dan 
was very happy as he steered the “Sary 
Ann” over a smiling summer sea without 
a clouding shadow. 

‘‘How did you push in so quick to the 
Foresters?” sneered Dud. 

‘ ‘ Looking for two lost donkeys, ’ ’ retorted 
Dan, who was learning to give Dud as 
good as he sent. 

‘‘Maybe you think you’ll get there 
again,” said Dud. ‘‘Well, you won’t, I 
can tell you that. It was all very well to 
make up so strong to a little fool girl; 
but they are the tip toppers of Beach 
Cliff, and you won’t hear any more of 
Miss Polly’s yacht or her party.” 

‘‘I’m not worrying over that, are you?” 
said Dan, philosophically. ‘‘You look as 
if you had a grouch on about something.” 

‘‘I have,” blurted out Dud, fiercely. 
‘‘I hate this horrid Killykinick and every- 
thing on it; and I’m not going to be mixed 
up before decent people with roughs and 
toughs that are fit only to black my boots — 
like, you, Dan Dolan!” 

[ 168] 


KILLYKINICK 


XV. — A Rescue; . 

For a moment Dan’s blue eyes flashed, his 
strong arm quivered. Every hardy nerve 
was tingling to strike out at the insolent 
speaker who lost no opportunity to fling 
a scornful word. But this beautiful day 
had left holy as well as happy memories. 
Dan had knelt at Brother Bart’s side 
before the altar light, that through all 
his hard rough young life had been Aunt 
Winnie’s boy’s beacon, — a^ beacon that 
had grown clearer and brighter with his 
advancing years, until it seemed to rise 
above earth into the dazzling radiance 
of the stars. Its steady light fell upon 
his rising passion now, and his fury broke 
as the swelling surf breaks upon the 
beacon rock — into foam and spray. 

“It is a sort of mix up, I must say,” 
he answered. “But I’m out of the boot- 
black business for good and all; so what 
are you going to do about it?” 

“Cut the whole lot,” said Dud; “just 
as soon as I can get the money to do it.” 
[169] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Well, I won’t cry after you, I’m sure,” 
retorted Dan, good-humoredly; though 
there was a spark in his eye that told the 
fire was smouldering still, as even under 
the beacon light such fires sometimes do. 

But a stentorian shout from Captain 
Jeb put an end to the altercation. 

“Wind’s a-veering! Swing round that 
ar boom, matey Dan! Duck, the rest of 
you boys, — duck — quick!” 

Freddy was asleep, with his head 
pillowed safely on Brother Bart’s knee. 
Jim was dozing in the stern, out of harm’s 
reach; but on Dud, seated at the edge of 
the boat and fuming with rage and pride, 
the warning Jell unheeded. As the sail 
swung round there was a splash, a shriek. 

“He is overboard! God have mercy on 
us!” cried Brother Bart, roused from his 
third Glorious Mystery of the Rosary. 

“Didn’t I tell you to duck, ye rascal?” 
roared Captain Jeb, to whom a tumble 
like this seemed only a boy’s fool trick. 
“Back aboard with ye, ye young fool! 
Back — aboard ! Don’t ye know there’s 
sharks about in these waters? Ford, ef 
he ain’t gone down!” 

“He can’t — can’t swim!” And Jim, who 
[170] 


KILLYKINICK 


had started up half awake and who could 
swim like a duck, was just about to 
plunge after Dud, when he caught the 
word that chilled even his young blood to 
ice — sharks! Jim knew what sharks meant. 
He had seen a big colored man in his own 
Southern waters do battle with one, and 
had sickened at the memory ever since. 

“A rope, — a rope!” thundered Captain 
Jeb, whose right leg had been stiffened 
for all swimming in deep waters ten years 
ago. ” If he goes down again, it’s forever.” 

” O G od have mercy ! God have mercy 1 ” 
prayed Brother Bart, helplessly; while 
Freddy shrieked in shrill alarm. 

In that first •wild moment of outcry, 
Dan had stood breathless while a tide of 
feeling swept over him that held him mute, 
motionless. Dud! It was Dud wFo had 
been swept over into those foaming, seeth- 
ing depths. Dud, whose stinging words 
were still rankling in his thoughts and 
heart; Dud, who hated, scorned, despised 
him ; Dud, who could not swim, and — and 
there were sharks, — sharks! 

Dan was trembling now in every strong 
limb, — trembling, it seemed to him, in 
body and soul. Sharks! Sharks! And it 

[171] 


KILLYKINICK 


was Dud. — Dud who had said Dan was 
fit only to black his boots! 

“O God have mercy! Mother Mary — 
Mother Mary, save him!” prayed poor 
Brother Bart. 

At the words Dan steadied, — ^steadied 
to the beacon light, — steadied into Aunt 
Winnie’s boy again. 

“Don’t scare. Brother Bart!” rang out 
his clear young voice. “I’ll get him.” 

“Dan! Dan!” shrieked Freddy, as, 
with the practised dive of the Wharf 
Rats, the lithe young form plunged into 
the water. “O Dan, — my Dan, the 
sharks will get you, too! Come back! 
Come back, Dan ! ” ^ 

Dan caught the words as he struck out 
blindly, desperately, almost hopelessly, 
through depths such as he had never 
braved before. For this was not the safe 
land-bound harbor; this was not the calm 
lap of the river around the sheltering wharf. 
This was a world of waters, seething, 
surging, roaring around him, peopled with 
hunting creatures hungry for prey. 

“Dan, Dan!” came his little chum’s 
piercing cry as he rose for breath. 

“Come back, ye fool!” thundered Cap- 


KILLYKINICK 


tain Jeb. “He’s gone, I tell ye, — the 
boy is gone down!’’ 

But even at the shout something dark 
swept within touch of Dan’s outstretched 
arm; he made a clutch at it and grasped 
Dud, — Dud choking, gasping, struggling , — 
Dud, who sinking for the last time caught 
Dan in a grip that meant death for both 
of them. 

“Let go!’’ spluttered Dan, fiercely, — 
“let go! Let go or we’ll drown together!” 
And then, as the deadly clutch only 
tightened, Dan did what all Wharf Rats 
knew they must do in such cases — struck 
out with the full strength of his hardy 
young fist; and, knocking the clinging Dud’s 
fast-failing wits completely out of him, 
swam back with his helpless burden to 
the “Sary Ann.” 

“The Lord, matey, but you are a game 
un!” said Captain Jeb, as he and Jim 
dragged Dud aboatd. 

“Ah, God have mercy upon the poor 
lad’s soul! It’s dead entirely he is!” 
sobbed Brother Bart. 

“Not a bit of it!” said Dan, scrambling 
up the side of the “Sary Ann.” “He’s 
just knocked out. I had to knock him 

[ 173 ] 


12 


KILLYKINICK 


out, or he would have pulled me down 
with him. Roll him over a little, so 
he can spit out the water, and he’ll be 
all right.” 

“Sure he is, — he is!” murmured Brother 
Bart, as Dud began to cough and splutter 
encouragingly. “It’s gone forever I 
thought he was, poor lad! Oh, God bless 
you for this day’s work, Dan Dolan, — 
bless you and keep you His forever!” 

“It was a close shave for all hands,” 
said Captain Jeb, permitting himself a 
long-drawn sigh of relief, as Dan, after 
shaking himself like a water-dog, sank 
down, a little pale and breathless, at his 
side. “And you were what most folk 
would call a consarned fool, matey. 
Didn’t you hear me say these ’ere waters 
had sharks in ’em?” 

“Yes,” said Dan, whose eyes were fixed 
upon a drift of sunlit cloud in the blue 
distance. 

“Then what the deuce did you do it 
for?” said Captain Jeb, severely. 

“Couldn’t let a fellow drown,” was the 
brief answer. 

“Warn’t nothing special to you, was 
he?” growled the old sailor, who was still 

[ 174 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


fiercely resentful of his “scare.” “Ain’t 
ever been perticular nice or soft spoken 
as I ever heard to you. And you jumping 
in to be gobbled by sharks, for him, like 
he was your own twin brother! You’re a 
fool, matey, — a durn young fool!” 

And Dan, who understood his old sailor 
friend, only laughed, — laughed while his 
eyes still followed the drift of swinging 
cloud fringing thfe deep blue of the sky. 
They were like the robe of the only 
Mother he had ever known, — the sweet 
Mother on whom Brother Bart had called 
to save Dud. And Dan had heard and 
obeyed, and he felt with a happy heart 
his Mother was smiling on him now. 

But to Dud this thrilling adventure 
left no pleasant memories. He was sick 
for several days from his overdose of salt 
water, weak and nervous from fright and 
shock; there was a bruise over his eye 
from the saving impact of Dan’s sturdy 
fist, which he resented most unreasonably. 
More than all, he resented the chorus 
that went up from all at Killykinick in 
praise of Dan’s heroism. 

Jim testified openly and honestly that 
the cry of “Sharks” got him, and he 

[ 175 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


-couldn’t have dared a plunge in those 
waters to save his own brother. 

“I saw a nigger cut in half by one of 
those man-eaters once, and it makes my 
flesh creep to think of it.” 

Even dull-witted old Neb rose to show 
appreciation of Dan’s bold plunge, and 
said he “reckoned all boys wuth anything 
did sech fool tricks some times.” 

Good old Brother Bart felt it was a 
time for warning and exhortation, which 
Dud found altogether exasperating. 

“Sure it’s on your knees you ought to 
go morning and evening to thank God 
for bould, brave Dan Dolan. If it hadn’t 
been for him, it’s food for the fishes ye’d 
be, now. The Lord was merciful to ye, 
lad; for I’m misdoubting if ye were fit 
for heaven. Though it’s not for me to 
judge, ye have a black look betimes, as 
if God’s grace wasn’t in yer heart. This 
ought to be a lesson to ye, — a lesson that 
ye should never forget.” 

“I’m not likely to forget it,” was the 
grim answer. “I couldn’t if I tried.” 

“And I’m glad to hear ye say so,” said 
the simple-minded old Brother. “I’m 
thinking sometimes ye’re not over friendly 
[ 176 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


with Dan. It was a rough bating he gave 
ye before we left the college.” (Dud’s 
black looks grew blacker at the memory.) 
“But he has more than made it up to 
ye now, for he has given ye back yer life..” 

“And what are you going to give him 
for it, Dud?” questioned Freddy confi- 
dentially, as the good Brother moved away. 

“Give who?” growled Dud, who was 
sick and sore and savage over the whole 
experience, and, strange to say — but such 
are the peculiarities of some natures, — 
felt as if he hated his preserver more 
than ever. 

“Why, Dan!” continued Freddy. “You 
always give a person something when he 
saves your life. Dick Walton told me 
that a man saved him when he was 
carried out in the surf last summer, and 
his father gave the man a gold watch.” 

“So Dan Dolan wants a gold watch, 
does he?” said Dud. 

“Oh, no!” answered Freddy, quite un- 
conscious of the sneer in the question. 
“I don’t think Dan wants a gold watch 
at all. He would not know what to do 
with one. But if I were you,” continued 
Dan’s little chum, his eyes kindling with 


77 


KILLYKINICK 


loyal interest, “I’d make it a pocket- 
book, — a nice leather pocket-book, with 
a place for stamps and car tickets and 
money, and I’d just fill it chock full. You 
see, Dan hasn’t much pocket money. He 
pulled out his purse the other day at 
Beach Cliff to get a medal that was in it, 
and he had only a nickel and two stamps 
to write to his aunt.’’ 

“So your brave Dan is striking for 
ready cash, is he?’’ said Dud, in a tone 
that even innocent Freddy could not 
mistake, and that Dan coming up the 
beach with a net full of kicking lobsters 
caught in all its sting. 

“Ready cash,’’ he asked, looking from 
one to the other. “For what?’’ 

“Pulling me out of the water the other 
day,’’ answered Dud. “Freddy says you’re 
expecting pay for it.’’ 

“Well, I’m not,” said Dan, the spark 
flashing into his blue eyes. “You’re ’way 
off there, Freddy, sure.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean, — I didn’t say,” 
began poor little Freddy, desperately. 

‘ ‘ I only thought people always got medals 
or watches or something when they saved 
other people, and I told Dud — ” 

[178] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Never mind what you told him, kid” 
(Dan laid a kind hand on his little chum’s 
shoulder) ; ‘ ‘ you meant it all right, I know. 
But Dud” (the spark in the speaker’s eye 
hashed brighter), — “Dud didn’t.” 

“I did,” said Dud. “My father will pay 
you all you want.” 

Then Dan blazed up indeed into Irish 
hre. 

“I don’t want his pay: I wouldn’t 
touch it. You ain’t worth it. Dud Fielding.” 
• “Ain’t worth what? My father is worth 
a million,” said Dud quickly. 

“ That for his million ! ” and Dan snapped 
his two fishy fingers under Dud’s Grecian 
nose. “You ain’t worth a buffalo nickel. 
Dud Fielding; and I wouldn’t ask one 
for saving your measly little life.” 

And Dan went off with, his lobsters, in 
a wrath almost fiery enough to boil them 
alive. Pay ! — pay for that wild plunge 
into vatery depths — the doubt, the fear, 
the icy terror of hungry monsters around 
him! Dud Fielding was offering him pay 
for this, very much as he might fling pay 
to him for blacking his boots. Ah, it was 
a fierce, bad moment for Dan ! His beacon 
light vanished; murky clouds of passion 

[ 179 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


were blackening dream and vision; he 
felt he could cheerfully pitch Dud back 
to the sharks again. And then, as still 
hot and furious, he strode back with his 
lobsters to old Ned, Freddy, who was 
remorsefully following him — remorseful at 
having stirred up a row, — piped up in 
sudden excitement: 

“O Dan, look, — look what’s coming 
here to Killykinick! Dan, just look!” 

Dan turned at the cry. Past Num- 
skull Nob, making her cautious, graceful 
way through rocks and shoals, was a 
beautiful white -winged yacht, her mast gay 
with pennants. One, fluttering wide to the 
breeze, showed her name, “The Polly.” 


[ i8o] 


KILLYKINICK 


XVI. — A New Experience. 

Dan stood staring in blank amazement, 
while Freddy’s voice rose into shriller 
triumph : 

“Jim, Dud, Brother Bart, look, — look 
what is coming here!’’ 

She was coming indeed, this white- 
winged stranger, swaying to the right 
and left under skilful guidance as she 
made her way to the Killykinick wharf; 
for her rugged old Captain knew the perils 
of the shore. And under the gay awnings 
that shaded the deck was a merry group 
of young people, waving their handkerchiefs 
to the rocky island they were approaching ; 
while Polly’s big handsome “dad,’’ in 
white linen yachting togs, pointed out the 
ship house and the wharf, the tower and 
garden patch, — all the improvements that 
queer old Great-uncle Joe had made on 
these once barren rocks. Polly’s dad had 
known about the old captain and his 
oddities all his life. Indeed, once in his 
very early years, as he now told his young 
listeners, he had made a boyish foray 
[ i8: ] 


KILLYKINICK 


in Great-uncle Joe’s domain, and had 
been repelled by the old sailor with a 
vigor never to be forgotten. 

“I never had such a scientific thrashing 
in my life,” laughed dad, as if he rather 
enjoyed the remembrance. “We were 
playing pirate that summer. I had a 
new boat that we christened the ‘ Red 
Rover,’ after Cooper’s story; and we 
rigged her up with a pirate flag, and 
proceeded to harry the coast and do all 
the mischief that naughty twelve-year- 
olds can do. Finally, I proposed, as a 
crowning adventure, a descent upon Killy- 
kinick, pulling down old Joey Kane’s mast- 
head and smashing his lantern. Well, we 
caught a Tartar there, I can tell you! The 
old captain never had any use for boys. 
And to think of the place being full of 
them now!” 

“Oh, no, dad! There are only four,” 
said Polly, — “four real nice boys from St. 
Andrew’s College, and just the right size 
to come to my party. O Nell, Grade, 
look! There they come!” 

And the handkerchiefs fluttered again, 
gleefully as “The Polly” made up to 
the wharf, and the whole population of 
[182] 


KILLYKINICK 


Killykinick turned out to greet her, -- 
even to Brother Bart, who had been 
reading his well-worn “Imitation” on the 
beach; and Neb, who, with the bag of 
potatoes he had just dug up, stood staring 
dumbly in the distance. 

“ Killykinick ahoy ! ” shouted dad, making 
a speaking trumpet of his hands. 

“Aye, aye!” answered Captain Jeb, 
with his crooked smile. “You’re ‘The 
Polly’ of Beach CliT. What’s wanted, 
Mr. Forester? Clams or lobsters?” — for 
in these latter days Killykinick did some- 
thing of a trade in both with the pleasure 
boats and cottages along the coast. 

“Well, we don’t like to call them either; 
do we, Polly?” laughed dad, as he stepped 
ashore, while the little girls crowded to 
the deck rail. “ ‘The Polly’ is sailing under 
petticoat orders to-day and is scouring 
the waters in search of four boys that, we 
understand, you have here at Killykinick.” 

“We have,” answered Captain Jeb, — 
“or at least the Padre here has. They’re 
none of mine.” 

“I am no Padre, as I’ve told ye again 
and again, Jeroboam,” interposed Brother 
Bart. “I am only Brother Bartholomew, 

[ 183] 


KILLYKINICK 


from St. Andrew’s College. And I have 
four boys here, but they’ve been under 
my eye day and night,” he continued 
anxiously; “so, in God’s name, what are 
ye after them for, sir? They .have done 
ye nor yours no harm, I am sure.” 

“None in the world,” said Mr. Forester 
quickly, as he saw his light speech was 
not understood. “I was only joking with 
Captain Jeb. My mission here, I assure 
you, is most friendly. Permit me to 
introduce myself. Brother Bar — Bar — 
Bartholomew — ’ ’ 

“Ye can make it Bart, sir, for short;, 
’most everyone does,” said the good 
Brother, nodding. 

“Then, Brother Bart, I am Mr. Pem- 
berton Forester, of Beach Cliff. I am also 
known by the briefer and pleasanter name 
of this little lady’s ‘dad,’ and it is in 
that official capacity I am here to-day. 
It seems this little girl of mine met your 
boys a few days ago at Beach Cliff, where 
they rendered her most valuable service.” 

“One — it was only one of them, dad[” 
corrected Miss Polly’s silvery voice. “It 
was only Dan Dolan who caught my bird 
and — and — ’ ’ 


84 


KILLYKINICK 


“Well, at all events, the acquaintance 
progressed most pleasantly and rapidly, 
as my daughter’s acquaintance is apt to 
progress; and it resulted in an equally 
pleasant understanding that the four 
young gentlemen were to come to a little 
festivity we are giving in honor of Polly’s 
birthday, — a garden party in our grounds, 
between the hours of six and nine. This 
is the occasion of our present visit. Brother 
Bart. Fearing that travelling facilities 
might not be at the young gentlemen’s 
disposal, we have come to take them to 
Beach Cliff. If you would like to accom- 
pany them — ” 

“To a party is it?” exclaimed Brother 
Bart, in dismay. “Me at a party! Sure 
I’d look and feel queer indeed in such a 
place.” Brother Bart’s glance turned from 
the fine boat to the gentleman before 
him; he felt the responsibilities of his 
position were growing perplexing. “It 
will be great sport for the boys, I am 
sure,” he added; “and I don’t like to say 
‘No,’ after all yer kindness’ in coming for 
them. But how are they to get back?” 

“Oh, we’ll see to that!” answered Mr. 
Forester, cheerfully. “They will be home 

[185] 


KILLYKINICK 


and safe in your care, by half -past ten, — 
I promise you that.” 

‘ ‘ Hooray ! — hooray ! ’ ’ rose the shout , 
that the boys who had been listening 
breathlessly to this discussion could no 
longer repress. 

There was a wild rush to the shining 
decks of “The Polly,” and soon all her 
pretty passengers were helped ashore, to 
scramble and climb as well as their dainty 
little feet could over the rocks and steeps 
of Killykinick, to wonder at the gardens 
and flowers blooming in its nooks and 
crannies, to peep into cow house and 
chicken house, and even old Neb’s galley, — 
to explore the “Lady Jane” from stem 
to stern in delighted amazement. 

Nell and Grade, who were a little older 
than their cousin, took possession of Jim 
and Dud; their small brother Tad 
attached himself to Freddy, who was about 
his own age; while Polly claimed her own 
especial find Dan for escort and guide. 

“Oh, what a queer, queer place!” she 
prattled, as, after peering cautiously into 
the depths of the Devil’s Jaw, they wended 
their way to safer slopes, where the rocks 
were wreathed with hardy vines, and the 
[ 186] 


KILLYKINICK 

sea stretched smiling into the sunlit 
distance. “ Do you like it here, Dan? ” 

“Yes: I’m having a fine time,” was 
the cheery answer, for the moment all 
the pricks and goads forgotten. 

“Are you going to stay long?” asked 
Miss Polly. 

“Until September,” answered Dan. 

“Oh, that’s fine!” said his small com- 
panion, happily. “Then I’ll get dad to 
bring me down here to see you again, 
Dan; and you can come up in your boat 
to see me, and we’ll be friends, — real 
true friends. I haven’t had a real true 
friend,” said Miss Polly, perching herself 
on a ledge of rock, where, in her pink 
dress and flower-trimmed hat, she looked 
like a bright winged butterfly, — “not since 
I lost Meg Murray.” 

“Lost her? Did she die?” 

“No,” was the soft sighing answer. “It was 
much worse than that. You see ” (Miss Pol- 
ly’s tone became confidential), “it was last 
summer, when I had the whooping cough. 
Did you ever have the whooping cough?” 

“I believe I did,” replied Dan, whose 
memory of such minor ills was by no 
means clear. 


[187] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Then you know how awful it is. You 
can’t go to school or out to play, or any- 
where. I had to stay in our own garden 
and grounds by myself, because all the 
girls’ rnothers were afraid of me. The 
doctor said I must be out of doors, so I 
had a play house away down by the high 
box hedge in the maze ; and took my 
dolls and things out there, and made the 
best of it. And then Meg found me. She 
was coming down the lane one day, and 
heard me talking to my dolls. I had to 
talk to them because there was no one 
else. And she peeped through the hedge 
and asked if she could come in and see 
them. I told her about the whooping 
cough, but she said she wasn’t afraid: 
that she had had it three times already, 
and her mother was dead and wouldn’t 
mind if she took it again. So she came 
in, and we played all the morning; and 
she came the next day and the next 
for weeks and weeks. Oh, we did have 
the grandest times together! You see, 
dad was away, and mamma was sick, 
and there was no one to bother us. I 
used to bring out apples and cookies and 
chocolate drops, and we had parties under 

[i88] 


KILLYKINICK 


the trees, and we promised to be real true 
friends forever. I gave her my pearl 
ring so she would always remember'. It 
was that pearl ring that made all the 
trouble.” And Miss Polly’s voice trembled. 

“How?” asked Dan, very gently. He 
never had a sister or a girl cousin or any 
one to soften his ways or speech; and 
little Polly’s friendly trust was something 
altogether new and strangely sweet to him. 

“Oh, it broke up everything!” faltered 
Miss Polly. ‘‘That evening an old woman 
came to the house and asked to see 
mamma, — oh, such a dreadful old woman! 
She hadn’t any bonnet or coat or gloves, — ■ 
just a red shawl on her head, and an old 
patched dress, and a gingham apron. 
And when James and Elise and every- 
body told her mamma was sick, she said 
she would see her anyhow. And she did. 
She pushed her way upstairs to mamma, 
and talked awfully,— said she was a poor 
honest woman, if she did sell apples on 
the corner; and she was raising her 
grandchild honest; and she asked how 
her Meg came by that ring, and where 
she got it. And then mamma, who had 
turned pale and fluttery, sent for me; and 
[ 189 ] 


13 


KILLYKINICK 


I had to tell her all, and she nearly fainted.’* 

“Why?” asked Dan. 

“Oh, because — because — I had Meg in 
the garden and played with her, and took 
her for a real true friend. You see, she 
wasn’t a nice little girl at all,” said Miss 
Polly, impressively. “Her grandmother 
had an apple stand at the street corner, 
and her brother cleaned fish on the wharf, 
and they lived in an awful place over a 
butcher’s shop; and mamma said she 
must not come into our garden again, 
and I mustn’t play with her or talk to her 
ever, ever again.” 

There was no answer for a moment. 
Dan was thinking — thinking fast. It 
seemed time for him to say something, — ■ 
to speak up in his own blunt way, — to 
put himself in his own honest place. But, 
with the new charm of this little lady’s 
flattering fancy on him, Dan’s courage 
failed. He felt that to acknowledge a 
bootblack past and a sausage-shop future 
would be a shock to Miss Polly that would 
break off friendly relations forever. 

‘ ‘ So you gave up your real true friend ? ’ ’ 
he said a little reproachfully, as Miss 
Polly hopped down from her rocky perch 

[ 190 1 


KILLYKINICK 

and proceeded to make her way back to 
the yacht. 

“Yes, I had to, you see. Even dad, 
who lets me do anything I please, said 
I must remember that I was a Forester, and 
make friends that fitted my name. And 
so — so” (Miss Polly looked up, smiling 
into Dan’s face) “I am going to make 
friends with you. Dad says he knows all 
about St. Andrew’s College, and you must 
be first-class boys if you belong there; 
and he is glad of a chance to give you a 
little fun. There he is calling us now!’’ — 
as a deep voice shouted: 

“All aboard, boys and girls! We’re off 
in half an hour! All aboard!” 

“Dan — Dan,” piped Freddy’s small 
voice. “Jim and Dud are dressing for the 
party, Dan. Come, we must dress, too.” 

And Dan, feeling like one venturing 
into unknown waters, proceeded to make 
the best of the things good Brother Francis 
had packed in his small shabby trunk. 
There was the suit that bore the stamp 
of the English tailor; there was a pair 
of low shoes, that pinched a little in the 
toes; there was a spotless shirt and collar 
outgrown by some mother’s darling, and a 

[ 191 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


blue necktie that was all a necktie should be 
when, with Freddy’s assistance, it was put 
properly in place. Really, it was not a 
bad-looking boy at all that faced Dan in 
the “Lady Jane’s’’ swinging mirror when 
this party toilette was complete. 

“You look fine, Dan!’’ said his little 
chum, as they took their way down to 
the wharf where “The Polly’’ was awaiting 
them, — “so big and strong and — ^and — ’’ 

“Tough,’’ said Dan, concluding the 
sentence with a forced laugh. “Well, 
that’s what I am, kid,— big and strong 
and tough.’’ 

“Oh, no, — Dan, no!’’ said Freddy. 
“You’re not tough at all, and you mustn’t 
say so when you go to a girl’s party, 
Dan.’’ 

“Well, I won’t,’’ said Dan, as he thought 
of the violet eyes that would open in 
dismay at such a confession. “I’ll play 
the highflier to-night if I can, kid; though 
it’s a new game with Dan Dolan, I must 
say.’’ 

And, with a queer sense of shamming 
that he had never felt before. Aunt 
Winnie’s boy started off for Miss Polly’s 
party. 


[ 192 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


XVII.— Polly’s Party. 

To all Miss Polly’s guests, that evening 
was a wonderful experience; but to Dan 
it was an entrance into a fairy realm that 
his fancy had never pictured; for in the 
hard, rough ways his childish feet had 
walked neither fairies nor fancies had place. 
He had found sailing over sunlit seas in 
Killy kinick’s dingy boats a very pleasant 
pastime; but the “Sary Ann” seemed to 
sink into a drifting tub when he stood on 
the spotless deck of “The Polly” as she 
spread her snowy wings for her homeward 
flight. 

Dad, who, though very rich and great 
now, still remembered those “pirate days” 
when he was young himself, proved the 
most charming of hosts. He took the boys 
over his beautiful boat, where every bit 
of shining brass and chain and rope and 
bit of rigging was in perfect shipshape; 
and an ' artful little motor was hidden 
away for emergencies of wind and tide. 
There was a lovely little cabin, all in white 
and gold, with pale blue draperies; and 
[ 193 ]• 


KILLYKINICK 


two tiny staterooms dainty enough for 
the slumbers of a fairy queen. There were 
books and games, and a victrola that sang 
full-toned boating songs as they glided 
onward. 

Even Dud was properly impressed by 
the charms of “The Polly”; and Jim was 
outspoken in his admiration. Freddy was 
wide-eyed with delight ; and Dan was 
swept quite away from his usual moorings 
into another world, — a world where Aunt 
Winnie’s boy seemed altogether lost. For, 
with Miss Polly slipping her little hand 
in his and guiding him over her namesake, 
and Freddy telling Tad the story of Dan’s 
dive among the sharks, to which even the 
man at “The Polly’s” wheel listened with 
interest, with dad so jolly and friendly, 
' and everything so gay and beautiful around 
him, it was no wonder that Dan’s head, 
accustomed to sober prosy ways, began 
to turn. 

“Dolan, — Dolan? I ought to know 
that name, ’ said dad, as, with Polly 
and her “nice” boy at his side, he stood 
watching the roofs and spires of Beach 
Cliff come into view. “There was a Phil 
Dolan in my class at Harvard, — one of 

i 194 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


the finest fellows I ever »knew; rolling in 
money, but it didn’t hurt him. He is a 
judge now, and I think he had a brother 
at West Point. Are you related to them?” 

“No, sir,” answered Dan, who at 
another time would have blurted out that 
he was not of the Harvard or West Point 
kind. “I — I am from Maryland.” 

“Oh, Maryland!”, said dad, approv- 
ingly. “I see, — I seel The Dolans of 
Maryland. I’ve heard of them, — one of 
the old Catholic families, I think.” 

“Yes, we’re — we’re Catholics all right,” 
said Dan, catching to this saving spar of 
truth, in his doubt and uncertainty. 
“We — we wouldn’t be anything else if 
we were killed for it.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t. That is your 
heritage, my boy! Hold fast to it,” said 
dad, heartily. Then he turned about to 
see that ‘ ‘ The Polly ’ ’ made the way safely 
to her private wharf, feeling that he left 
his little girl with the scion of a family 
quite equal to the Foresters. 

With the strange sense of treading in an 
unreal world, Dan passed on with the rest 
of the chattering, laughing crowd to the 
pretty, rustic wharf jutting out into the 

[ 195 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


waters, and up to the steep, narrow street 
where carriages were waiting to take them 
to the Forester home. The wide grounds 
and gardens were already gay with the 
gathering guests. Pretty, flower-decked 
tables were set in the maze. The trees 
were hung with Japanese lanterns, that a 
little later would glow into jewelled lights. 
There was a group of “grown-ups” on the 
porch, — mamma, beautiful in cloudy white; 
sisters and cousins and aunts, — for the 
Forester family was a large one. There 
were two grandmothers — one fat and one 
thin, — very elegant old ladies, with white 
hair rolled high upon their heads. They 
looked upon the youthful guests through 
gold lorgnettes, and were really most 
awe-inspiring. 

The St. Andrew’s boys were brought up 
ahd “presented” in due form. It was an 
ordeal. How Dan got through with it he 
didn’t know. He had never before been 
“presented” to any one but Polly. But 
dad managed it somehow, and on the 
porch friendly shadows were gathering 
that concealed any social discrepancies. 
Then Polly flitted off to don her party 
dress, and Dan found himself stranded on 
[ 196 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


the danger reefs of this strange world,, 
with dad giving the fat grandmother his 
family history. 

“Dolan?” repeated the old lady, who 
was a little deaf. “One of the Dolans of 
Maryland, you say, Pemberton? Dear me! 
I used to visit Dolan Hall when I was a 
girl. Such a beautiful old Colonial home! 
Is it still standing?” she said, turning 
to Dan. 

“I — I don’t know, ma’am,” stammered 
Dan, who found the gleam of the gold 
lorgnettes most confusing. 

“What does he say?” asked the old 
lady sharply. 

“That he does not know, mother dear!” 
answered dad. 

“He should know,” said the old lady, 
severely. “The young people are growing 
up in these careless days without any 
proper sentiment to the past. A home 
like Dolan Hall, with its memories and 
traditions, should be a pride to all of the 
Dolan blood. The name is really French — 
D’Olane, — but most unfortunately, as I 
consider, was anglicized. The family was 
originally from Touraine, and dates back 
to the Crusaders, and is most aristocratic.” 

[197] 


KILLYKINICK 


“He looks it,” murmured the thin 
grandmother, fixing her lorgnettes on Dan’s 
broad shbulders as he moved away to join 
Tad and Freddy, who were making friends 
with Polly's poodle. “I have never seen a 
boy carry himself better. Blood will tell, 
as I have always insisted, Stella.” 

The lady at her side laughed. She, too, 
had been regarding Dan with curious 
interest. 

“What ‘does it tell. Aunt Lena?” she 
asked. 

“The lady and the gentleman,” answered 
Polly’s grandmother. 

“Oh, does it?” said the other, softly. 
“I oppose I am not very wise in such 
matters, but one of the nicest ladies I ever 
knew was a little Irish sewing woman who 
made buttonholes. It was one summer 
when I went South, more years ago than 
I care to count; and Winnie — her name 
was Winnie — came to the house to renovate 
my riding habit for me,” 

The speaker paused as if she did not 
care to say more. She was a slender little 
person, not awe-inspiring at all. She had 
just driven up in a pretty, light carriage, 
and was still muffled in a soft fleecy wrap 
[ 198 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


that fell around her like a cloud. The face 
that looked out from it was sweet and pale 
as a star. It brightened into radiance as 
Polly, a veritable fairy now in her party 
fluffs and ruffs and ribbons, sprang out on 
the porch and flung herself into Miss 
Stella’s arms. 

“Marraine! Marraine!” she cried rap- 
turously, — -“my own darling Marraine!” 

“Why will you let the child give you 
that ridiculous name, my dear?” protested 
grandmamma, disapprovingly. 

“Because — because I have the right to 
it,” laughed the lady, as Polly nestled 
clbse to her side. “I am her godmother 
real and true, — am I not, Pollykins? 
And we like the pretty French name for 
it better.” 

“Oh, much better!” assented Polly. 
“‘Godmother’ is too old and solemn to 
suit Marraine. Oh!” (with another rap- 
turous hug) ‘ ‘ it was so good of you to come 
all the way from Newport just for my 
party, dear, dear Marraine!” 

“All the way from Newport!” answered 
the lady. “Why, that dear letter you sent 
would have brought me from the moon. 
You will be ten years old to-night, it 

[ 199 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


said, — ten years old! O Polly kins! Polly- 
kins!” (There was a little tremor in the 
voice.) “And you asked if I could come 
and help you with your part}^. I could and 
I would, so here I am! And here is your 
birthday present.” 

Marraine flung a slender golden chain 
around Polly's neck. 

“Oh, you darling, — you darling!” mur- 
mured sPolly. “But you are the best of 
all birthday presents, Marraine, — the very 
best of all!” 

“Now, really we must stop all this 
‘spooning,’ Pollykins, and start things,” 
said Marraine, dropping her fleecy cloud 
on the porch rail behind her, and emerging 
in a shining silvery robe, with a big bunch 
of starry jessamine pinned on her breast. 

“You are not going to bother with the 
children, surely, Stella?” said dad, who 
had drawn near the speaker. 

“I am,” said the lady, flashing him a 
laughing look. “That’s what I came for. 
I am going to forget the years’ (don’t be 
cruel enough to count them. Cousin Pern), 
and for two hours (is it only two hours 
we have, Pollykins?) be a little girl again 
to-night.” 


200 


KILLYKINICK 


And, taking Polly’s hand, she tripped 
away from the grown-ups on the porch, 
and things were started indeed. 

Grove and garden, maze and lawn, 
suddenly sparkled with jewelled lights; 
the stringed band in the pagoda burst 
into gay music. Led by a silvery vision, 
Polly’s guests formed a great ring-around- 
a-rosy for an opening measure, and the 
party began. And, with a fairy godmother 
like Miss Stella leading the fun, it was 
a party to be remembered. There were 
marches and games, there was blind man’s 
buff through the jewel-lit maze, there was 
a Virginia reel to music gay enough to make 
a hundred-year-old tortoise dance. There 
was the Jack Horner pie, fully six feet 
round, and fringed with gay ribbons to 
pull out the plums. Wonderful plums 
they were. Minna Foster drew a silver 
belt buckle; her little sister, a blue locket; 
Dud, a scarf-pin; Jim, a pocketknife with 
enough blades and “fixings” to fill a 
miniature tool chest; and Freddy, a paint 
box quite as complete; while Dan -pulled 
•out the biggest plum of all — a round white 
box with a silver cord. 

As it came out at the end of his red 
[ 201 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


ribbon, there was a moment’s breathless 
hush, broken by Polly’s glad cry: 

“The prize, — the prize, Marraine! Dan 
has drawn my birthday prize!” And, 
under a battery of curious and envious 
eyes, Dan opened the box to hnd within 
a pretty gold watch, ticking a most cheer- 
ing greeting to its new owner. 

“Dan, — Dan!” Polly’s jubilant voice 
rose over all the chorus around him. 
“Oh, I’m so glad you got it, Dan!” 

And Marraine’ s eyes followed Polly’s 
delighted glance with the same look of 
curious interest that she had bent upon 
Dan a while ago on the porch. 

“Do you mean that this is for me?”' 
he blurted out, in bewilderment. 

“Yes, for you, — for you,'* repeated 
Polly in high glee. “It’s real gold and 
keeps real time, and it’s yours forever!” 

“It’s too — too much — ^I mean it’s — it’s 
too fine for a fellow like me,” stammered 
Dan. “What will I do with it?” 

“Wear it,” chirped Miss Polly, throwing 
the silken guard around his neck, “so 
you will never forget my birthday, Dan.” 

And then a big. Japanese gong sounded 
the jcall to the flower-decked tables, where: 

[ 202 ] 




KILLYKINICK 


busy waiters were soon serving a veritable 
fairy feast. There were cakes of table- 
size and shape and color; little baskets 
and boxes full of wonderful bonbons; 
nuts sugared and glazed until they did 
not seem nuts at all; ice-cream birds in 
nests of spun sugar;, “kisses” that snapped 
into hats and wreaths and caps. And all 
the while the band played, and the jewelled 
lights twinkled, and the stars shone far 
away above the arching trees. And Dan, 
with his watch around his neck, held his 
place as the winner of the prize at Miss 
Polly’s side, feeling as if he were in some 
dizzy dream. Then there were more games, 
and a grand hide-and-seek, in which dad 
and some of the grown-ups joined. 

Dan had found an especially fine place 
under the gnarled boughs of an old cedar 
tree, that would have held its head high 
in the starlight if some of dad’s gardeners 
had not twisted it out of growth and shape. 
Hiding under the crooked shadows, Dan 
was listening to the merry shouts through 
maze and garden, when he became sud- 
denly conscious of a change in their tone. 
The voices grew sharp, shrill, excited, 
and then little Polly burst impetuously 
[ 203 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


into his hiding place, — a sobbing, trem- 
bling, indignant little Polly, followed by 
a score of breathless young guests. 

“I don’t believe it!” she was crying 
tempestuously. “ I won't believe it! You’re 
just telling horrid stories on Dan, because 
I like him and he got the prize.” 

”0 Pollykins! Pollykins!” came Miss 
Stella’s low, chiding voice. 

“Halloo! halloo! What’s the trouble?” 
rose dad’s deep tones above the clamor. 
“My little girl crying, — crying?” 

“Yes, I am!” was the sobbing answer. 
“I can’t help it, dad. The girls are all 
whispering mean, horrid stories about 
Dan, and I made them tell me all they 
said they had heard. I don’t believe them, 
and I won't believe them!* I told them I 
wouldn’t believe them, — that I would 
come right to Dan and let him speak for 
himself. — Were you ever a newsboy and a 
beggar boy, Dan? Did — did you ever black 
boots? Have you an aunt in the poor- 
house, as Minna Foster says?” 


[ 204] 


KILLYKINICK 


XVIII. — Back into Line;. 

There was a moment’s pause. Dan was 
really too bewildered to speak. He felt 
he was reeling down from the rainbow 
heights to which Miss Polly had led him, 
and the shock took away his breath. 

“It’s all — all a horrid story; I’rti sure 
it is, — isn’t it, Dan?’’ pleaded his little 
friend, tremulously. 

“Why, no!” said Dan, rallying to his 
simple, honest self again. “It isn’t a story 
at all. I was a newsboy, I did shine boots 
at the street corner, and Aunt Winnie is 
with the Little Sisters of the Poor now.” 

“Bravo! — bravo!” came a^. low silvery 
voice from the shadows, and Miss Stella 
clapped her slender hands. 

“O Dan, Dan!” cried poor little Miss 
Polly, sobbing outright. “A newsboy and 
bootblack! Oh, how could you fool me 
so, Dan?” 

“With your infernal lies about your 
home and family!” burst forth dad, in 
sudden wrath at Polly’s tears. 

“ I didn’t fool, — I didn’t lie, sir!” blurted 
[ 205 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


out Dan, fiercely. “I did nothing of the 
kind ! ’ ’ 

“If you will kindly do the boy justice 
to remember, he did not, Cousin Pern!’’ 
and Miss Stella’s clear, sweet voice rose 
in witness. “You gave his family history 
yourself. He did not know what you were 
talking about, with your Crusading an- 
cestors and the D’Olanes. I could see it 
in his face. You are all blood-blind up 
here. Cousin Pern. I was laughing to 
myself all the time, for I guessed who 
Dan Dolan was. I knew he was at St. 
Andrew’s. His dear old Aunt Winnie is 
one of my truest friends.’’ 

“O Marraine, Marraine!’’ murmured 
Polly, eagerly. “And — and you don’t mind 
it if—’’ 

“If she is with the Little Sisters of the 
Poor, Pollykins? Not a bit! Some day 
I may be there myself. Now that this 
tempest in a teapot is over, you can all 
go off and finish your games. I am going 
to sit under this nice old tree and talk 
to Miss Winnie’s boy.’’ 

And while dad, still a little hot at the 
trouble that had marred Polly’s party, 
started the fun in another direction. Miss 
[ 206 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Stella gathered her silvery gown around 
her and sat down on the rustic bench 
beneath the old cedar, and talked to Dan. 
He learned how Aunt Winnie had sewed 
patiently and skilfully for this lovely lady 
a dozen years ago, when she was spending 
a gay season in his own town ; and how the 
gentle old seamstress, with her simple 
faith and tender sympathy, her wise 
warnings to the gay, motherless girl, had 
won a place in her heart. 

“I tried to coax her home with me,” 
said Miss Stella, “to make it ‘home,’ as 
I felt she could; but Baby Danny was 
in the way, — the little Danny that she 
could not leave.” 

Then Dan, in his turn, told about Killy- 
kinick, and how he had been sent there 
for the summer and had met little Polly. 

“I should have told,” he said, lifting 
Aunt Winnie’s own blue Irish eyes to 
Miss Stella’s face. — “I should have said 
right out straight and square that I wasn’t 
Polly’s kind, and had no right to push in 
here with grand folks like hers. But it 
was all so fine it sort of turned my head.” 

“It will do that,” replied Miss Stella,, 
softly. “ It has turned mine often, Danny. 

[ 207 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


But now we both see straight and clear 
again, and I am going to make things 
straight and clear with all the others/’ 

“You can’t,” said Dan, — “not with 
those grand ladies in gold spectacles; not 
with Polly’s dad; maybe not with Polly 
herself. I’m all mixed up, and out of 
line with them. And — and — ” (Dan took 
the silken guard from his neck) “I want 
you to give them back this gold watch, 
and tell them so.” (He slipped the Jack 
Horner prize into Miss Stella’s hand.) 
“I’m not asking anything and I’m not 
taking anything that comes to me like 
this. And — and — ” (he rose and stood 
under the crooked tree in all his straight, 
sturdy strength) “Neb is down at the 
wharf with a load of clams. We passed 
him as we came up. I’m not pushing in 
among the silk cushions any more. I’m 
going home with him.” 

Which, with Miss Stella’s sympathetic 
approval, he did at once. 

When a little later the guests had all 
gone, and “The Polly” was taking her 
white-winged way back to Killykinick with 
Dud, Jim, and Freddy; when the jewelled 
lights had gone out, and the party was 
[ 208 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


over, and all was quiet on the starlit 
porch, Miss Stella returned Dan’s watch 
and gave his message. Bven the two 
grandmammas, being really grandmammas 
at heart, softened to it, and dad declared 
gruffly it had been a fool business alto- 
gether, while Polly flung herself sobbing 
into her godmother’s arms. 

“O Dan, — poor Dan! He is the nicest 
boy I ever saw, — the nicest and the 
kindest, Marraine! And now — now he 
will never come back here any more!” 

“I don’t think he will, Pollykins,” was 
the low answer. “You see” (Marraine 
dropped a light kiss on the nestling curls), 
“he was a newsboy and a bootblack, and 
he does not deny it; while you — you, 
Pollykins — ” 

“Oh, I don’t care what he was!” in- 
terrupted Miss Polly, tempestuously, — 
“I don’t care what he was. I took him 
for my real true friend, and I am not 
going to give up Dan as I gave up Meg 
Murray, Marraine.” Polly tightened her 
clasp around Miss Stella’s neck so she 
could whisper softly in her ear: “If he 
won’t come back, you and I will go after 
him ; won’t we, Marraine ? ’ ’ 
f 209 1 


KILLYKINICK 




Meanwhile, with his head pillowed on 
a pile of fish nets — very different, we must 
confess, from the silken cushions of dad’s 
pretty yacht, — and with old Neb droWvSily 
watching her ragged sail, Dan was back 
again in his own line, beneath the guiding 
stars. It was a calm, beautiful night, and 
those stars were at their brightest. Even 
Neb’s dull wits seemed to kindle under 
their radiance. 

“You can steer ’most anywhere when 
they shine like that. Don’t want none of 
these ’ere winking, blinking lights to show 
you the way,” he said. 

“But the trouble is they don’t always 
shine,” answered Dan. 

“No,” said Neb, slowly, “they don’t; 
that’s a fact. But they ain’t ever really 
out, like menfolk’s lights. The stars is 
always thar.” 

“Always there,” — yes, Dan realized, as, 
with his head on the dank, fishy pillow, 
he looked up in the glory above him, 
the stars were always there. Blurred some- 
times by earthly mists and vapors, lost 
in the dazzling gleam of jewelled lights, 
darkened by the shadows of crooked trees, 
they shone with pure, steadfast, guiding 
[ 210 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


rays, — the stars that were always there. 
A witching little Will-o’-the-wisp had 
bewildered Dan into strange ways this 
evening; but he was back again in his own 
straight honest line beneath the stars. 

On “The Polly,” making her way over 
the starlit water to ICillykinick, things 
were not so pleasant. 

“ It was a mean, dirty trick to give Dan 
away. I don’t care who did it!” said big- 
hearted Jim, roused into spirit and speech. 

“It wasn’t I, — oh, indeed it wasn’t I!” 
declared Freddy. “I told Tad Dan was the 
biggest, strongest, finest fellow in the whole 
hunch. I never said a word about his being 
a newsboy or a bootblack, though I don’t 
think it hurts him a bit.” 

“And it doesn’t,” said Jim, whose blood 
had been a ‘ ‘ true blue ’ ’ stream before the 
Stars and Stripes began to wave. “But 
there are some fools that think so.” 

“Calling me fool, are you?” said Dud, 
fiercely. 

“No, I didn’t,” retorted Jim. “But if 
the name fits you, take it. I don’t object.” 
And he turned away, with a flash in his 
eyes most unusual for Sunny Jim, — a 
flash that Dud did not venture to kindle 
into angry fire. [ 211 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


But, though the storm blew over, as 
such springtime storms will, Dan had 
learned a lesson, and felt that he never 
again wished to venture on the dizzy 
heights where wise heads turn and strong 
feet falter. Though Dud and Jim, who 
both had pocket money in plenty, made 
arrangements at the Boat iClub for the 
use of a little motor boat several times a 
week, Dan held to his own line as second 
mate at Killykinick, and was contented to 
share old Neb’s voyaging. They went out 
often now; for, under the old sailor’s 
guidance, Dan was becoming an expert 
fisherman. And soon the dingy boat, 
loaded with its silvery spoil, became known 
to camps and cottages along the other 
shores. Poor old Neb was too dull-witted 
for business; but customers far from 
markets watched eagerly for the merry 
blue-eyed boy who brought fish, “still 
kicking,” for their early breakfast, — clams, 
crabs, and lobsters, whose freshness was 
beyond dispute. Neb’s old leather 'wallet 
began to fill up as it had never been filled 
before. And the dinners that were served 
on the “Lady Jane,” the broiled, the baked, 
the fried fish dished up in rich plenty every 

f 212 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


day, shook Brother Bart’s allegiance to 
Irish stews, and, as he declared, “would 
make it aisy for a heretic to keep the 
Friday fast forever.” 

Then, Dan had the garden to dig and 
weed, the cow to milk, the chickens to 
feed, — altogether, the days were most 
busy and pleasant; and it was a happy, 
if tired, boy that tumbled at night into 
his hammock swung beneath the stars, 
while old Jeb and Neb smoked their 
pipes on the deck beside him. 

Three letters had come from Aunt 
Winnie, — a Government boat brought 
weekly mail to the lighthouse on Num- 
skull Nob. They were prim little letters, 
carefully margined and written, and spelled 
as the good Sisters had taught her in 
early youth. She took her pen in hand — 
so letters had always begun in Aunt 
Winnie’s schooldays — to write him a few 
lines. She was in good health and hoped 
he was the same, though many were sick 
at the Home, and Mrs. McGraw (whom 
Dan recalled as the dozing lady of his- 
visit) had died ‘very sudden on Tuesday; 
but she had a priest at the last, and a 
Requiem Mass in the chapel, with the 

[ 213 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


altar in black, and everything most 
beautiful. Poor Miss Flannery's cough 
was bad, and she wouldn’t be long here, 
either; but, as the good Mother says, we 
are blessed in having a holy place where 
we can die in peace and quiet. And Aunt 
Winnie’s own leg was bad still, but she 
thanked God she could get around a bit 
and help the others. And, though she 
might never see him again — for she would 
be turned on seventy next Thursday, — ■ 
she prayed for her dear boy nights, and 
dreamed of him constant. And, begging 
God to bless him and keep him from harm, 
she was his affectionate aunt, Winnie 
Curley.’ 

The other letters were very much in 
the same tone: some other old lady was 
dying or failing fast; for, with all its 
twilight peace. Aunt Winnie was in a val- 
ley of the shadow, where the light of youth 
and hope and cheer that whistling, laugh- 
ing Dan brought into Mulligans’ attic 
could not shine. 

“I’ve got to get her home,’’ resolved 
Dan, who was keen enough to read this 
loss and longing between the old-fashioned 
neatly-written lines. “It’s Pete Patterson 


214 


KILLYKINICK 


and the meat shop for me in the fall and 
good-bye to vSt Andrew’s and ‘pipe 
dreams ’ forever ! Aunt Winnie has to come 
back, with her blue teapot on her own 
stove and Tabby purring at her feet again 
or — or” (Dan choked at ' the thought) 
“they’ll be having a funeral Mass at the 
Little Sisters for her.” 

And Dan lay awake a long time that 
night looking at the stars, and stifling a 
dull pang in his young heart that the 
heights of which he had dreamed were 
not for him. But he was up betimes next 
morning, his own sturdy self again. Old 
Neb had a bad attack of rheumatism that 
made his usual early trip impossible. 

“They will be looking for us,” said Dan. 
‘ ‘ I promised those college girls camping 
at Shelter Cove to bring them fresh fish 
for breakfast.” 

“Let them catch for themselves!” 
growled old Neb, who was rubbing his 
stiffened arm with whale oil. 

“Girls!” said Dan in boyish scorn. 
“What do girls know about fishing? They 
squeal every time they get a bite. I’ll 
take Freddy to watch the lines (Brother 
Bart isn’t so scary about him now), and 
go myself.” [215] 


KILLVKINICK 


XIX. — A Morning Venture. 

After some persuasion from Captain Jeb, 
who declared he could trust matey Dan’s 
navigation now against any wind and tide, 
Brother Bart consented to Freddy’s morn- 
ing sail with his sturdy chum. 

“Sure I know Dan loves laddie better 
than his own life,” said the good old man 
anxiously, as he watched Neb’s ragged 
sail flitting off with the two young fisher- 
men. “ But it’s only a boy he is, after all.” 

“Mebbe,” said Captain Jeb, briefly. 
“But thar’s boys wuth half a dozen good- 
sized men, and matey is that kind. You 
needn’t scare about any little chap that 
ships with him. And what’s to hurt 
him, anyhow. Padre? You’ve got to let 
all young critters try their legs and wings.” 

And Freddy was trying his triumphantly 
this morning. It was one of Dan’s lucky 
days, and the lines were drawn in again 
and again, until the college girls’ breakfast 
and many more silvery 'shiners were 
fluttering and gasping in old Neb’s fish 
basket. Then Dan proceeded to deliver 
[ 216 1 


KILLYKINICK 


his wares at neighborly island shores, 
where summer campers were taking brief 
holidays. Some of these islands, more 
sheltered than Killykinick, were fringed 
with a tick growth of hardy evergreens, 
hollowed into coves and inlets, where the 
waves, broken in their wild, free sweep, 
lapped low-shelving shores and invited 
gentle adventure. 

On one of these pleasant outposts was 
the college camp; and half a dozen pretty 
girl graduates, in “middies” and khaki 
skirts, came down to meet Dan. One of 
them led a big, tawny dog, who made a 
sudden break for the boat, nearly over- 
turning Freddy in his leap, and crouching 
by Dan’s side, whining and shivering. 

“Oh, he’s yours! We said he was 
yours!” went up the girlish chorus. “Then 
take him away, please. And don’t let him 
come back; for he howled all night, and 
nearly set us crazy. Nellie Morris says 
dogs never howl that way unless somebody 
is dead or dying; and she left her mother 
sick, and is almost frantic. Please take 
him away, and don’t ever bring him near 
us again!” 

“But — but he isn’t mine at all,” replied 

[ 217 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Dan, staring at the big dog, who, shivering 
and wretched as he seemed, awoke some 
vague memory. 

“Then whose is he?” asked a pretty 
sopkesman, severely. “He could not have 
dropped from the clouds, and yours was 
the only boat that came here yesterday.” 

“Oh, I know, — I know, Dan!” broke 
in Freddy, eagerly. “He belongs to that 
big man who came with us on the steam- 
boat. He had two dogs in leashes, and 
this is one of them, I know, because I 
saw this brown spot on his head when I 
gave him a cracker.” 

“Mr. Wirt?” Dan’s vague memory 
leaped into vivid light: Mr. John Wirt’s 
big, tawny dog indeed, who perhaps, 
with some dim dog-sense, remembered 
Freddy. “I do know him now,” said 
Dan. “He belongs to a gentleman named 
Wirt--” 

“Well, take him where he belongs,” 
interrupted the young lady. “We don’t 
care where it is. We simply can’t have 
him howling here.” 

“Oh, take him, Dan!” said Freddy. 
“Let us take him home with us.” 

“Mr. Wirt must be around somewhere,” 
[218] 


KILLYKINICK 


reflected Dan. “He said perhaps he would 
come to Killykinick. We’ll take him,” he 
agreed cheerfully, as he handed out his 
basket of fish to the pretty, young campers. 
“And I think his master will come along 
to look him up.” 

And the boys started on their home- 
ward way, with Rex (which was the name 
on their new companion’s collar) seated 
between them, still restless and quivering, 
in spite of all Freddy’s efforts to make 
friends. 

“He wasn’t this way on the boat,” 
said Freddy as, after all his stroking and 
soothing, Rex only lifted his head and 
emitted a long, mournful howl. “I went 
down on the lower deck where the big 
man had left his dogs, and they played 
with me fine, — ^shook paws and wagged 
their tails and were real nice.” 

“I guess he knows he is lost and wants 
to get back to his master,” said Dan. 
“Dogs have a lot of sense generally, so 
what took him over to that girls’ camp 
puzzles me.” 

“He didn’t like the girls, — did you, 
Rex?” asked Freddy, as he patted his 
new friend’s nose. “My, he is a beauty, — 

[ 219 ] 


. KILLYKINICK 


isn’t he, Dan? Just the kind of a dog 
I’d like to have; and, if nobody comes 
for him, he will be ours for keeps. Do 
you think Brother Andrew will let us 
have him out in the stable at St. Andrew’s? 
Dick Walton kept his rabbits there — ” 

“Until a weasel came and gobbled them 
up,’’ laughed Dan, as he steered away 
from a line of rocks that jutted out like 
sharp teeth from a low-lying, heavily 
wooded shore. 

“They couldn’t gobble Rex, — could 
they, old fellow!’’ said Freddy, with 
another friendly pat. 

But, regardless of all these kindly 
overtures, Rex sprang to his feet, barked 
in wild excitement for a moment, made 
a plunge from the boat and struck out 
for the shore. 

“Oh, he’s gone, — he’s gone!’’ cried 
Freddy, desperately. 

“Rex! Rex!” called Dan. “There’s 
nothing or nobody there. Come back, — 
come back! Well, he must be a durned 
fool of a dog to be jumping off at every 
island he sees. — ^Rex! Rex! — He’ll starve 
to death if we leave him here.” 

“Oh, he will, — ^he will!” said Freddy, 
[ 220 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


wofully. “Come back, Rex, old fellow, 
nice dog, — come back!” 

Freddy whistled and called in vain : Rex 
had vanished into the thick undergrowth. 

“Oh, let’s go for him, — let’s go for him, 
Dan 1 ’ ’ pleaded Freddy. ‘ ‘ Maybe he is after 
a wild duck or something. We ought not 
to let a fine dog like that get lost and 
starve to death. One of the deck hands 
on the steamboat told me those dogs 
were worth a hundred dollars a piece, and 
that they had more sense than some 
humans.” 

“Well, he isn’t showing it this morning, 
sure; and he didn’t yesterday either,” 
said Dan, gruffly. “He isn’t the kind of 
dog to leave around here for any tramp 
to pick up. I’ll agree; but how are we 
to haul him back, unless he chooses to 
come? And I know nothing about this 
shore anyhow. Neb told me they called 
it Last Island, and there was once a light 
here that the old whalers could see fifty 
miles out — why, halloo!” Dan paused in 
his survey of the doubtful situation. 
“He’s coming back!” 

“Rex! Rex!” shouted Freddy, glee- 
fully; for it was Rex indeed, — Rex coming 
[ 221 ] 


15 


KILLYKINICK 


through the dense low growth, in long 
leaps, with quick, sharp barks that were 
like calls; Rex plunging into the water 
and swimming with swift strokes to the 
waiting boat ; but Rex refusing absolutely 
to be pulled aboard. He only splashed 
and shook himself, scattering a very 
geyser of salt water on the tugging boys, 
and barked louder and sharper still as 
if he were doing his best to talk. 

“Jing!” exclaimed Dan, giving up all 
efforts to manage him. “I never saw such 
a durned chump of a dog! I’m wet to 
the skin.” 

“Oh, he wants something!” said softer- 
hearted Rreddy. “He is trying to tell 
us something, Dan.” 

Rex barked again, as if he had heard 
the words; and, leaping on the edge of 
the boat, he caught Freddy’s khaki sleeve. 

“Lookout there, or he’ll pull you over- 
board!” shouted Dan in fierce alarm, as 
Rex piilled still harder. “Golly! I believe 
he wants us to come ashore with him.” 

“Oh, he does, — he does!” said Freddy, 
eagerly. “He has hunted something down 
and wants us to get it, Dan. Let us see 
what it is.” 


[ 222 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


It was a temptation that two live boys 
could not resist. Mooring Neb’s old 
fishing boat to a sharp projecting rock, 
they proceeded to wade where it would 
have been impossible to navigate; Rex 
leaping before them, barking jubilantly 
now, as if he had won his point. 

“You stand back, kid!’’ (Through all 
the excitement of a discoverer, Dan did not 
lose sight of his responsibilities.) “Let 
me go ahead, so if there is anything to 
hurt I’ll strike it first. Straight behind 
in my steps, and lookout for suck- 
holes!’’ 

And, with Rex leading, they proceeded 
Indian file over the narrow strip of sand 
that shelved to the sea, and then on 
through thicket and brambles that hedged 
the shore in wild, luxuriant growth, until 
suddenly the ruins of the old lighthouse 
rose out of the tangle before them. The 
shaft that had upheld the beacon light 
was all gone save the iron framework, 
which rose bare and rusted above the 
little stone cabin that had sheltered the 
keeper of long ago, and that still stood amid 
crumbling stones and fallen timbers. 

“Back, Freddy, — back!’’ shouted Dan, 


223 


KILLYKINICK 


as something big and fierce bolted out of 
the ruins. “Why, it’s the other dog!” 
he added in relief. “Mr. Wirt must be 
somewhere around.” 

And, peering into the open door of the 
cabin, he stood dumb with dismay; for 
there indeed, stretched upon the rotten 
floor under the broken roof, was his 
friend of the steamboat. His gun 'v^as 
beside him, his head pillowed on his knap- 
sack, his eyes closed, all his pride and 
strength and manly bearing gone; only 
the short, hard breathing showed that 
he was still alive. 

“Golly!” gasped Freddy, who had crept 
in behind his chum. “Is — is he dead, 
Dan?” 

“Not — not — yet, but he looks mighty 
close to it. Mr. Wirt — ” he faltered, 
bending over the prostrate form; “Mr. 
Wirt!” he repeated louder. There was 
no answer. “I’m afraid he’s gone,” said 
Dan, in an awe-struck voice; and Freddy 
burst into boyish tears. 

“What are you crying about?” asked 
Dan, gruffly. 

“Oh, I don’t know, — I don’t know!” 
was the trembling answer. “I — I never 
[ 224 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


saw anybody dead before. What — what 
do you think killed him, Dan?” 

“Nothing. He isn’t killed,” replied 
Dan, who had been taking close obser- 
vations. ‘ ‘ He is still breathing. I guess 
he came here to hunt and got sick, and 
that’s what the dog was trying to tell 
« people. Gosh, it’s a pity dogs like that 
can’t talk!” ^ 

“Oh, it is, — it is!” murmured Freddy, 
putting his arm around Rex, who, his 
duty done, was seated on his hind legs, 
gravely surveying his master. 

The sick man moved a little, and groaned 
feebly: “Water!” The word came faintly 
through parched lips. “Water, — a little — 
water! ” 

Dan picked up a can that had evidently 
done duty before. 

“Stay by him, Freddy, so he’ll know 
there is somebody here. I’ll go to get some 
water. They must have had a pump or 
well around a place like this.” 

And ^while Dan discovered the broken, 
half-choked cistern at the back of the Old 
Light, P'reddy watched the sick man. He 
had never before seen any one very sick, 
and it took some pluck to keep his post 
\ 225 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


especially when Mr. Wirt suddenly opened 
his eyes and looked at him. It was such a 
strange, wild, questioning look that Freddy 
felt his heart nearly leap into his throat. 

Then Dan came back with the can full 
of water, and together they did their 
best for their patient, — bathing his head, 
wetting his parched lips, laving the help- 
less hands that were burning with fever, 
until the bright, sunken eyes closed and 
the sick man sank into a fitful sleep. 

“He is pretty badly off,” said Dan, 
who had seen pain and sickness and death, 
and knew. “He ought to have a doctor 
right away, and it’s for us to get one quick 
a,s we can. But it will be a good three 
hours’ job; and” (Aunt Winnie’s boy’s 
voice softened) “I hate to leave the poor 
fellow here without any one to give him a 
drop of water, when he’s burning up like 
this. But you can’t sail the boat alone, 
kid.” 

“No, I can’t,” faltered Fredd}^ — “I 
can’t sail the boat, Dan; but — but” (the 
young voice steadied bravely) “I can stay 
here with him.” 

“You can!” echoed Dan, staring at his 
little chum in amazement. “You’d scare 
[ 226 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


to death, kid, here all alone with a dying 
man. He is likely to go off any minute.” 

“Maybe,” faltered Freddy. “But — ■ 
but I’d stay by him all the same, Dan. 
I can bathe his head and his hands, and 
give him water to drink, and say prayers 
like Brother Bart says we must when 
people are dying. O Dan, we can’t leave 
him here to die alone!” 

“No, we can’t,” said Dan, heartily. 
“I’d never think of asking a kid like you 
to stay. But, with the two dogs on the 
watch, there’s nothing to fear. And you 
are doing the real right and plucky thing, 
for sure. I’ll sail over to Killykinick and 
see if I can get Jim or Dud off for the 
nearest doctor, and be back here as quick 
as I can. And you, kid” (Dan’s tone 
softened tenderly to his little chum), 
“don’t scare more than you can help. 
Stick it out here as best you can.” 

Dan was off at the words, and for a 
moment Freddy felt his heart sink within 
him. He looked at the broken walls, the 
gaping roof, the dying man, and his 
blood chilled at the thought of the long 
hours before any one could return to him. 
Standing at the door of the Old Light, his 
f 227 1 ' 


KILLYKINICK 


eyes followed Dan’s sturdy figure leaping 
swiftly through the bramble bush, and now 
he had reached the boat and put off. 

PVeddy was left indeed. He gulped 
down a big lump that rose in his throat, 
and, with the can of water Dan had freshly 
filled for him, took his seat at this patient’s 
side. Rex came up and put a cold nose on 
his knee, and Freddy’s watch began. 


I 


1 228 i 


KILLYKINICK 


XX. — LiTTiiE Boy Bi^ue. 

Mr. Wirt lay very still. Freddy never 
remembered seeing any one quite so still 
before. Even his breathing had grown 
quiet, and the rise and fall of the broad 
breast was the only sign of life in the 
otherwise motionless figure. All around 
him was very still, too. Freddy could 
hear the plash of the waves on the beach, 
the rustle of the wind through the dwarf 
trees, the whir of wings as some sea bird 
took its swift flight above the broken roof. 
But within there was a solemn hush, that 
to the small watcher seemed quite 
appalling. 

Roy, as the other dog was named on 
his collar, dozed at his master’s feet. 
Rex kept his place at Freddy’s side, as if 
conscious of his responsibilities; and, for 
a time that seemed quite interminable, 
all were silent. Freddy found himself 
studying the big man’s pale face with 
fearsome interest. How very pale it was! 
And the rough growth of beard that 
hid mouth and chin made it seem paler 
still. But the nose was straight and 

[ 229 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


smooth as Freddy’s own. The silver- 
streaked hair fell in .soft waves over a 
broad handsome brow. And there was a 
white scar on the left temple, that throbbed 
with the low breathing. Somehow, that 
scar held Freddy’s eye. Surely he had 
seen a V shaped scar like it before, where 
or when he could not think ; perhaps 
on one of the big football players at 
St. Andrew’s. 

“Ah, if good Brother Tim were only 
here now!” thought Freddy hopelessly, 
as the picture of the spotless stretch of 
infirmary arose before him. The rows of 
white beds so safe and soft; the kind old 
face bending over the fevered pillows; 
Old Top waving his friendly shadow in 
the sunlit window; the Angelus chiming 
from the great bell tower ; the merry 
shouts of the ball players on the green 
below,- -all these memories were in dire 
contrast to the present scene. 

If Dan would only come back! But he 
wouldn’t — he couldn’t — for hours. And 
maybe this big, strange man might die 
while he was gone, — die with only a little 
boy beside. him, — a little boy to help him, 
to pray for him. Freddy’s thoughts grew 
[ 230 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


more and more solemn and awesome. 
People always prayed by dying beds, he 
knew. Oh, if Dan would only eome with a 
doctor and perhaps a priest! For Freddy 
felt that big men who wandered around 
the world with dogs and guns were likely 
to need higher spiritual ministrations than 
a small boy could give. In the meanwhile 
he would do his best; and, drawing out 
his silver-mounted rosary, he began to 
say his beads. 

And perhaps, as the young watcher 
had been an early riser this morning, he 
was nodding a little over his decades 
when a sudden movement of his patient 
roused him. Mr. Wirt was awake, his 
eyes fixed steadily on Freddy’s face. 

“Still here,” he murmured, — still here? 
Boy, — little boy! Are you real or a death 
dream?” 

It was a startling question; but Freddy 
had learned something of fever vagaries 
during the measles, when even some of 
the Seniors had lost their heads. 

“Oh, I’m real!” he answered cheerfully. 
“I’m a real boy all right. I’m Freddy 
Neville, from St. Andrew’s. College — ” 

“My God!” burst in a low cry from the 
pale lips. [231] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Yes,” said Freddy. “Ifs time for 
you to say that, — to sa)^ your prayers, 
I mean; because — because — you’re very 
sick, and when people are very sick, you 
know, they — sometimes they die.” 

“Die!” was the hoarse echo. “Aye, 
die as I have lived, — in darkness, despair! 
Lost — lost — lost!” 

“Oh, no, no, no!” Boy as he was, 
Freddy felt his young heart thrill at the 
cry. “You’re not lost yet. You’re never 
lost while you live. You can always say 
an act of contrition, you know, and — 
and — ” Freddy’s voice faltered, for the 
role of spiritual adviser was a new one; 
but he had not gone through the big 
Catechism last year without learning a 
young Catholic Christian’s obligations. 
“Would — would you like me to say an 
act of contrition for you?” he asked. 

There was no answer save in the strange 
softening of the eyes fixed upon the boyish 
face. And, feeling that his patient was 
too far gone for speech, Freddy dropped 
on his knees, and in a sweet, trembling 
tone repeated the brief, blessed words of 
sorrow for sin, the plea for pardon, the 
promise of amendment. It had been a 
\ 232 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


long, long time since those familiar words 
had fallen on his listener’s ears; a longer 
time since they had reached his heart. 
For years he had believed nothing, hoped 
nothing, feared nothing. Life had been 
to him a dull blank, broken only by 
reckless adventure; death, the end of 
all. But for three days and nights he 
had lain helpless, fever-smitten, stricken 
down in all his proud strength in this 
wilderness, with no friends but his dogs, 
no home but the ruined hut into which 
he had crawled for shelter, no human 
aid within reach or call. The derelict, 
as he had called himself to Dan, had 
drifted on the rocks beyond hope and help, 
as derelicts must. And in those three days 
and nights he had realized that for him 
there was no light in sea or sky, — that all 
was darkness forever. 

And then young voices had broken in 
upon the black silence; and, opening his 
eyes, closed on hideous fever dreams, he 
had seen Freddy, — Freddy, who was not 
a dream; Freddy, who was kneeling by 
his side, whispering sweet, forgotten words 
of peace and hope and pardon; Freddy — 
Freddy — he could not speak, there was 

[ 233 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


such a stirring in the depths of his heart 
and soul. He could only stretch out his 
weak, trembling hand, that Freddy met 
with a warm, boyish grip. 

“Oh, I’m here yet!” he said, thinking 
his patient needed the reassurance. “I’m 
staying here right by you, to say prayers, 
or get water or anything you want. Dan 
left me here to take care of you. He has 
gone for the doctor; and if you just hold 
on till they get here, why, maybe — maybe 
— they’ll pull you through all right. Gee 
whilikinsl” exclaimed Freddy, as the sick 
man suddenly started up from his rude 
pillow. “You musn’t do that!” 

‘ ‘ I must — I must ! ’ ’ was the hoarse 
reply; and Freddy was caught in a wild, 
passionate clasp to his patient’s heart. 
“Dying or living, I must claim you, hold 
you, my boy, — my own little son, — little 
Boy Blue!” The voice sank to a low, 
trembling whisper. “Little Boy Blue, 
don’t you know your own daddy?” 

And Freddy, who had been struggling 
wildly in what he believed to be a delirious 
grasp, suddenly grew still. “Little Boy 
Blue,” — it was the nursery name of long 
ago, — the name that only the dad of those 

[234] 


KILLYKINICK 


days knew, — the name that even Brother 
Bart had never heard. It brought back 
blazing fire, and cushioned rocker, and the 
clasp of strong arms around his little 
white-robed form, and a deep, merry voice 
in his baby ear: “Little Boy Blue.” 

Freddy lifted a frightened, bewildered 
little face. The eyes, — softened now with 
brimming tears ; the straight nose like 
his own, the waving hair, the scar he had 
so often pressed with baby fingers, — ah, 
he remembered, — little Boy Blue remem- 
bered ! It was as if a curtain were snatched 
from a far past that had been only dimly 
outlined until now. 

“My daddy, — my daddy, — my own 
dear daddy!” he cried, flinging his arms, 
about the sick man’s neck. “Oh, don’t 
die, — don’t die!” 

For, weak and exhausted by his outburst 
of emotion, the father had fallen back 
upon his pillow, gasping for breath, the 
sweat standing out in great beads on his 
brow, his hand clutching Freddy’s own 
in what seemed a death clasp. 

And now Freddy prayed indeed, — 
prayed as never in all his young life he 
had prayed before, — prayed from the 

[ 235 1 


KILLYKINICK 


depths of his tender, innocent heart, in 
words all his own. 

“O God, Father in heaven, spare my 
dear daddy! He has been lost so long! 
Oh, do not let me lose him again! Save him 
for his little boy, — save him, spare him!” 

Without, the sky had darkened, the 
wind moaned, the waves swelled white- 
capped against the low shore. The August 
storm was rising against Last Island in 
swift wrath; but, wrestling in passionate 
fervor for the life that had suddenly 
become so precious to him, Freddy did 
not hear or heed. The dogs started out 
into the open. Father and son were alone 
in the gathering gloom. 

Through what he believed the throes 
of his death agony, the sick man caught 
the sweet, faltering words: “O dear Lord, 
have mercy on my dear father! Let him 
live, and we will bless and thank You 
all the rest of our lives. He has been lost 
so long, but now he has come back. Oh, 
try to say it with me, daddy: you have 
come back to be good, — to live good and 
live right forever ! ’ ’ 

And then, even while Freddy prayed, 
the storm burst upon Last Island. And 

[ 236 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


such a storm! It seemed as if the derelict 
lying there had roused wind and wave 
into destructive fury against the friendly 
outpost that sheltered him. Last Island 
had been abandoned on account of its 
perilous exposure; and its beacon Hght, 
shattered again and again by fierce ocean 
gales, was transferred to a safer shore. 

“It’s a- washing away fast,’’ old Neb had 
informed Dan when they had drifted by 
the low-lying shore. “Some of these days 
a big storm will gulp it down for good.” 

And truly the roaring sea seemed to 
rush upon it in hungry rage to-day. The 
dogs came in crouching and whining to 
their master ; while the wind shrieked 
and whistled, and the foaming breakers 
thundered higher and higher upon the 
unprotected shore. 

“O Dan, Dan!” thought Freddy hope- 
lessly, as the storm beat through the 
broken walls and roof. “Dan will never 
get here now, — never!” 

But, though his heart was quailing 
within him. Brother Bart’s laddie was no 
weakling: he stood bravely to his post, 
bathing his father’s head and hands, 
wetting the dry, muttering lips, soothing 

[ 237 ] 

16 


KILLYKINICK 


him with tender words and soft caresses, — 
“daddy, my own dear daddy, it is your 
little boy that is with you, — your own 
little Boy Blue! You will be better soon, 
daddy.” And then through the roar and 
rage of the storm would rise the boyish 
voice pleading to God for help and mercy. 

And the innocent prayer seemed to 
prevail. The sick man’s labored breathing 
grew easier, the drawn features relaxed, 
the blood came into the livid lips; and, 
with the long-drawn sigh of one exhausted 
by his struggle for life, Freddy’s patient 
sank into a heavy sleep; while his little 
Boy Blue watched on, through terrors 
that would have tried stronger souls than 
Brother Bart’s laddie. For all the powers 
of earth and air and sea seemed loosened 
for battle. The winds rose into madder 
fury; the rain swept down in blinding 
floods; forked tongues of fire leaped from 
the black clouds that thundered back to 
the rolling waves. 

The dogs crouched, whimpering and 
shivering, at Freddy’s side. Whether 
daddy was alive or dead he could not tell. 
He could only keep close to him, trembling 
and praying, and feeling that all this horror 
[ 238 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


of darkness could not be real: that he 
would waken in a moment, — waken as he 
had sometimes wakened at St. Andrew’s, 
with Brother Bart’s kind voice in his ear 
telling him it was all a dream, — an awful 
dream. 

And then blaze and crash and roar 
would send poor little Boy Blue shivering 
to his knees, realizing that it was all true: 
that he was indeed here on this far-off 
ocean isle, beyond all help arid reach of 
man, with daddy dying, — dead beside him; 
He had closed the door as best he could 
with its rusted bolt; but the wind kept 
tearing at it madly, shaking the rotten 
timbers until they suddenly gave way, 
with rattle and crash that were too much 
for the brave little watcher’s nerves. He 
flung his arms about his father in horror 
he could no longer control. 

“Daddy, daddy!’’ he cried desperately. 
“Wake up, — wake up!^ Daddy, speak to 
me and tell me you’re not dead!’’ 

And daddy started into consciousness 
at the piteous cry, to find his little Boy 
Blue clinging to him in wild affright, while 
wind and wave burst into their wretched 
shelter, — wind and wave! Surging, foam- 

[ 239 1 


KILLYKINICK 


ing, sweeping over beach and bramble and 
briar growth that guarded the low shore, 
rising higher and higher each moment 
before the furious goad of the gale, came 
the white-capped breakers! 

“Oh, the water is coming in on us! 
Poor daddy, poor daddy, you’ll get wet!” 

And then daddy, wild wanderer that 
he had been over sea and land, roused 
to the peril, his dulled brain quickening 
into life. 

“The gun, — my gun!” he said hoarsely. 
“It is loaded, Freddy. Lift it up here 
within reach of my hand.” 

“O daddy, daddy, what are you going 
to do?” cried Freddy in new alarm. 

“Shoot, — shoot! Signal for help. There 
is a life-saving station not far away. 
There, hold the gun closer now, — closer!” 

And, the trembling hand pulled the 
trigger, and its sharp call for help went 
out again and again into the storm. 


[ 240 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


XXI. — A Dark Hour. 

Mhantimk Dan had set his dingy sail to- 
what he felt was a changing wind, and 
started Neb’s fishing boat on the straightest 
line he could make for Killykinick. But 
it had taken a great deal of tacking and 
beating to keep to his course. He w^s 
not yet sailor enough to know that the 
bank of cloud lying low in the far horizon 
meant a storm; but the breeze that now 
filled and now flapped his sail was as full 
of pranks as a naughty boy. In all his 
experience as second mate, Dan had never 
before met so trying a breeze; and it was 
growing fresher and stronger and more 
trying every minute. To beat back to 
Beach Cliff against its vagaries, our young 
navigator felt would be beyond his skill. 
The only thing he could do was to take the 
shorter course of about three miles to 
Killykinick, and send off Jim and Dud in 
their rented boat (which had a motor) for 
a doctor. Then he could explain Freddy’s 
absence to Brother Bart, and hurry back 
to his little chum. 


[ 241 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Wind and tide, however, were both 
against these well-laid plans to-day. The 
wind was bad enough, but now even the 
waves seemed to have a strange swell, 
different from the measured rise and fall 
he knew. It was as if their far-off depths 
were rising, stirring out of their usual 
calm. They no longer tossed their snowy 
crests in the summer sunlight, but surged 
and swayed in low, broken lines, white- 
capped with fitful foam. And the voice — 
the song of the sea — that had been a very 
lullaby to Dan as he swung every night 
in his hammock beneath the stars, had a 
hoarse, fierce tone, like a sob of passion 
or pain. Altogether, Dan and his boat 
had a very hard pull over the three miles 
to Killykinick. 

“Thar they come!” said Captain Jeb, 
who, with Brother Bart, was watching 
from the beach. “I told you you could 
count on Mate Dan, Padre. Thar the 
lads come, safe and sound; though the}^ 
hed a pull against the wind, I bet. But 
here they come all right.” 

“God be thanked for that same!” said 
Brother Bart, reverently. “My heart has 
been nearly leaping out of my breast this 

[ 242 1 


KILLYKINICK 


last half hour. And you weren’t over- 
■easy about them yourself, as I could see, 
Jeroboam.” 

“Wall, I’m glad to see the younkers 
safe back, I must say,” agreed Captain 
Jeb, in frank relief. “Thar was nothing 
to skeer about when they started this 
morning, but that bank of cloud wasn’t in 
sight then. My, but it come up sudden! 
It fairly took my breath when Neb pointed 
it out to me. That ar marline spike didn’t 
hurt his weather eye. ‘ Hurricane,’ he says 
to me; ‘straight up from the West Indies, 
and them boys is out 1 ’ I tell you it did give 
me a turn — aye, aye matey!” as Dan came 
hurrying up the beach. “Ye made it all 
right again wind an’ tide — but where’s 
the other ? ” 

‘‘Laddie, — my laddie!” cried Brother 
Bart, his ruddy face paling. ‘‘Speak up, 
Dan Dolan! Has harm come to him?” 

‘‘No, no, no!” answered Dan, eagerly, — 
‘‘no harm at all. Brother Bart. He is 
safe and sound. Don’t scare. Brother 
Bart.” And then as briefly as he could 
Dan told the adventure of the morning. 

‘‘And you left laddie, that lone innocent, 
with a dying man?” said Brother Bart. 

[ 243 1 


KILLYKINICK 


“Sure it will frighten the life out of him!” 

“No, it won’t,” replied Dan. “Freddy 
isn’t the baby you think. Brother Bart. 
He’s got lots of sand. He was ready and 
willing to stay. We couldn’t leave the 
poor man there alone with the dogs.” 

“Sure you couldn’t, — you couldn’t,” 
said the good Brother, his tone softening. 
“But laddie — little laddie, — that never 
saw sickness or death! Send off the other 
boys for the doctor, Jeroboam, and the 
priest as well, while Dan and I go back 
for laddie.” 

But Captain Jeroboam, who was watch- 
ing the horizon with a wide-awake weather 
eye, shook his head. 

“You can’t, Padre, — you can’t! Not 
even the ‘Lady Jane’ could make it agin 
what’s coming on now. If the boy is 
on dry land, you’ll have to trust him to 
the Lord.” 

“Oh, no, no!” answered the good 
Brother, forgetting what he said, in his 
solicitude. “I’ll go for him myself. Give 
us your boat, man, and Dan and I will 
go for laddie.” 

“Ye can’t, I tell ye!” and the old 
sailor’s voice took a sudden tone of com- 

[ 244 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


mand. “I’m captain of this here Killy- 
kinick, Padre; and no boat leaves this 
shore in the face of such a storm, for it 
would mean death to every man aboard 
her, — sure and certain death.” 

“The lyord have mercy, — the Lord have 
mercy! ” cried Brother Bart. “ My laddie, — 
my poor little laddie 1 The fright of this 
will kill him entirely. Oh, but you’re the 
hard man, Jeroboam! You have no heart! ” 

“Back!” shouted Captain Jeb, heedless 
of the good old man’s reproaches, as a 
whistling sound came over the white- 
capped waves. “Back, under cover, all 
of ye. The storm is on us now!” 

And, fairly dragging Brother Bart, 
while Neb and Dan hurried behind them, 
the Captain made for shelter in the old 
ship under the cliffs, where Dud and Jim 
had already found refuge. 

“Down with the hatches! Brace every- 
thing!” came the trumpet tones of com- 
mand of the old sailor over the roar of the 
wind. And doors and portholes shut, the 
heavy bolts of iron and timber fell into 
place, and everything was made tight and 
fast against the storm that now burst 
in all its fury on Killykinick, — a storm 

[ 245 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


that sent Brother Bart down on his knees 
in prayer, and held the boys speechless and 
almost breathless with terror. In the 
awful blackness that fell upon them they 
could scarcely see one another. The “Lady 
Jane” shook from stem to stern as if she 
were being torn from her fifty years’ 
mooring. The stout awnings were ripped 
from the upper deck; their posts snapped 
like reeds in the gale; the great hollows 
of the Devil’s Jaw thundered back the 
roar of the breakers that filled their 
cavernous depths with mad turmoil. On 
land, on sea, in sky, all was battle, — such 
battle as even Captain Jeb agreed he had 
never seen on Killykinick before. 

“I’ve faced many a hurricane, but 
never nothing as bad as this. If it wasn’t 
for them cliffs behind us and the stretch 
of reef before, durned if we wouldn’t be 
washed clean off the face of the earth!” 

“Laddie, laddie!” was the cry that 
blended with Brother Bart’s prayers for 
mercy. “God in heaven, take care of my 
poor laddie through this! I ought not to 
have let him out of my sight.” 

“But he’s safe, Brother Bart,” said 
Dan, striving to comfort himself with 
[ 246 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


the thought. “He is on land, you know, 
just as we are; and the old lighthouse 
is as strong as the ‘Lady Jane’; and 
God can take care of him anywhere.” 

“Sure He can, lad, — He can. I’m the 
weak old sinner to doubt and fear,” was 
the broken answer. “But he’s only a bit 
of a boy, my own little laddie, — only a 
wee bit of a boy, that never saw trouble 
or danger in his life. To be facing this 
beside a dying man, — ah, God have 
mercy on him, poor laddie!” 

So, amid fears and doubts and prayers, 
the wild hours of the storm and darkness 
passed; the fierce hurricane, somewhat 
shorn of its first tropic strength, swept 
on its northward way; the shriek of the 
wind sank into moan and murmur; the 
sea fell back, like a passion- weary giant; 
the clouds broke and scattered, and a 
glorious rainbow arched the clearing sky. 

The bolts and bars that had done such 
good duty were lifted, and the crew of 
the “Lady Jane” went out to reconnoitre 
a very damaged domain. Cow-house and 
chicken-house were roofless. Brown Betty 
lay crouching fearful in the ruins, while 
her feathered neighbors fluttered homeless 

[ 247 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


in the hollows of the rocks. The beans 
and peas and corn, — all things that had 
lifted their green growth too proudly, 
were crushed to the earth. But far worse 
than this was the havoc wrought on the " 
beach. One half of the wharf was down. 
The small boats, torn from their moorings, 
had disappeared entirely. The motor 
boat Jim and Dud had hired for the 
season was stove in upon the rocks. The 
“Sary Ann,” stranded upon the shoals of 
Numskull Nob, to which she had been 
swept by the gale, lay without mast or 
rudder, leaking at every joint. 

The two old salts surveyed the scene 
for a moment in stoic silence, realizing all 
it meant to them. But Brother Bart, with 
the sunlight dancing on the waves, the 
rainbow arching the sky, broke into 
eager, hopeful speech. 

“God be thanked it’s over and we’re 
all alive to tell it; for Noah’s deluge itself 
couldn’t have been worse. And now, 
Jeroboam, we’ll be going over after laddie; 
and the Lord grant that we may find 
him safe as the rest!” 

“We’ll be going after him!” repeated 
Captain Jeb, grimly. “How and whar?” 

[ 248 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Sure — can’t we right one of the boats? ’’ 
asked the old man, anxiously. 

“Which boat,’’ was the gruff question. 
“That thar pla)' toy” (surveying the 
motor boat) “is smashed in like an egg- 
shell. Whar the other has been swept to 
nobody knows. And the ‘Sary Ann’ has 
done her best, as we all can see; but 
no boat could hold her own agin that 
storm. Do you think she will stand till 
morning. Neb?” 

Neb rolled his dull eyes over reef and 
shoal. 

“She moight,” he replied briefly. “Struck 
pretty bad thar in the bow; but the 
wind is down now and the tide is low.” 

“And she is oak-keeled and copper- 
braced from stem to stern,” continued 
Captain Jeb. “She may stick it out until 
we can get thar and tow her in. As for 
the boy. Padre, we can’t reach him no 
more’n we can reach the ‘Sary Ann’ 
without a boat; and thar’s nothing left 
that will float around this Killykinick.” 

“Ah, the Lord have mercy! And are 
we to leave laddie in that wild place 
beyond all night?” cried Brother Bart. 
'“Scatter, boys, — scatter all over the place, 

1 249] 


KILLYKINICK 

and maybe you can find a boat caught 
in the rocks and sands; for we must get 
to the laddie afore the night comes on, 
cost what it may. Scatter and strive to 
find a boat!” 

While the boys scattered eagerly enough 
Captain Jeb, making a spyglass of his 
hands, was scanning the horizon with a 
sailor’s practised eye. 

“What is it you see?” asked Brother 
Bart, anxiously. “Don’t tell me it’s 
another storm 1 ’ ’ 

“No,” answered Captain Jeb, slowly, “it 
ain’t another storm. Neb” (his tone grew 
suddenly sharper and quicker), “step up 
to the ship and get the old man’s glass, — 
the glass we keep shut up in the case.” 

Neb, who never shirked an order, 
obeyed. In a moment he returned with 
one of the greatest treasures of the “Lady 
Jane” — Great-uncle Joe’s ship-glass that 
was always kept safe from profaning 
touch; its clear lenses, that had looked 
out on sea and sky through many a long 
voyage, polished to a shine. Captain Jeb 
adjusted them to his own failing eyes, and 
gazed seaward for a few moments in 
silence. Then he said: 

\ 250 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


% 

“ ’Pears as if I couldn’t see clarly after 
that tarnation blow. You look out, Neb. 
And, Padre, you’d better step back thar 
and keep a weather eye on them younkers. 
It doesn’t do to turn them out too free, 
with things all broke up.” 

“You’re right, man, — you’re right, Jero- 
boam,” said the good Brother, tremulously. 
“I’ll keep an eye on them, as you say.” 

“Thar, — I’ve got him out of the way!” 
said Captain Jeb, as Brother Bart hurried 
back to watch over his scattered flock. 
“Now, look. Neb, — look steady and 
straight! Three points to the south of 
Numskull Nob, — what d’ye see?” 

“Nothing at all,” answered Neb. 

“Look again!” His brother adjusted 
the old shipmaster’s glass with a hand 
that trembled strangely. “Another point 
to the south. Look steady as ye can, 
Neb. Yer weather eye was always clarer 
than mine. What d’ye see now?” 

“Nothing,” came the answer again; 
and then the dull tone quickened: “Aye 
I do, — I do! Thar’s suthing sticking out 
of the waves like a broken mast.” 

“The Old Light,” said Captain Jeb, 
hoarsely, — “all that’s left of it. Last 
[ 251 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Island has gone under, as you said it 
would, Neb, — clean swallowed up. And 
the boy — ” (the speaker gulped down 
something like a sob). “Looks as if the 
Padre will never see his little lad agin.” 


[ 252 1 


KILLYKINICK 


XXII. — The Lost and Found. 

There had been an extra Mass at the 
little church at Beach Cliff on the morning 
of the storm. Father Tom Rayburn, an 
old classmate of the pastor’s, had arrived, 
and been welcomed most cordially. 

‘ ‘ I am off to an old camping ground of 
mine — Killykinick,” he had explained to 
his host as they sat together at breakfast. 
“One of our Brothers is there with some 
of St. Andrew’s boys, and my own little 
nephew is among them.” 

“Ah, yes, I know!” was the reply. 
“They come every Sunday to the late 
Mass. And, by the way, if you are going 
out into those ocean ‘wilds,’ you could 
save a busy man some trouble by stopping 
at the Life-Saving Station (it’s not far 
out of your way, as I suppose you’ll take 
a sail or a motor boat) ; and I promised 
two of those sturdy fellows who are 
groping for the Truth some reading 
matter. I thought a friendly talk at the 
same time would not be amiss. They have 
little chance for such things in their 

[ 253 ] 


17 


KILLYKINICK 


lonely lives. But my duties are quad- 
rupled at this season, as you know.” 

“And the ‘ wilderness’ is in my line,” 
said Father Tom. “Of eourse I’ll be glad 
to stop. I used to haunt the Life-Saving 
Station when I was a boy; and I should 
like to see it again, especially when I 
can do a little missionary work on the 
side,” he laughed cheerily. 

And so it had happened that while 
Dan and Freddy were hauling in their 
lines and delivering breakfasts along the 
shore, one of the trig motors from the 
Boat Club was bearing a tall, broad- 
shouldered passenger, bronzed by sun and 
storm, to the Life-Saving Station, whose 
long, low buildings stood on a desolate 
spit of sand that jutted out into the sea 
beyond Shelter Cove. It was Uncle 
Sam’s farthest outpost. The Stars and 
Stripes floating from its flagstaff told of 
his watchful care of this perilous stretch 
of shore, that his sturdy sons paced by 
day and night, alert to any cry for help, 
any sign of danger. 

Father Tom, whose own life work lay 
in some such lines, met the Life-Savers 
with a warm, cordial sympathy that made 

[ 254 ] 


KILLY KIN ICK 


his visit a most pleasant one. He was 
ready to listen as well as talk. But Blake 
and Ford, whom he had come especially 
to see, were on duty up the shore, and 
would not be back for more than two 
hours. 

“I’ll wait for them,’’ said Father Tom, 
who never let a wandering sheep, that 
hook or crook could hold, escape his 
shepherd’s care; and he settled down for 
a longer chat of his own wild and woolly 
West, which his hearers, watching with 
trained eyes the black line in the horizon, 
were too polite in their own simple way 
to interrupt. Their guest was in the 
midst of a description of the Mohave 
Desert, where he had nearly left his 
bones to bleach two years ago, when his 
boatman came hurriedly up with a request 
of speedy shelter for his little craft. 

“There’s a storm coming up I daren’t 
face, sir,’’ he said. “We can’t make 
Killy kinick until it blows over. You’ll 
have to stay another hour or two here.” 

“All right, if our good friends will keep 
us,” was the cheery response. “We are 
not travelling on schedule time.” 

And then Father Tom looked on with 

[ 255 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“keen interest as the sturdy life-savers made 
ready for the swift -coming tempest that 
was very soon upon them, bringing Blake 
and Ford back, breathless and drenched, 
to report their observations along the 
beach, — that there was nothing in sight: 
everything had scudded to shelter. So all 
gathered in the lookout, whose heavy 
leaded glass, set in a stone frame, defied 
the fury of the elements. And, thus 
sheltered, the group in Uncle Sam’s out- 
post watched the sweep of the storm. 

“It’s a ripper!’’ said Blake, translating 
the more professional opinion of his mates 
to Father Tom. “But we ain’t getting the 
worst of it here. These West Indianers 
travel narrow gauge tracks, and weTe 
out of line. Killy kinick is catching it 
bad. Shouldn’t wonder if that stranded 
tub of the old Captain’s would ked over 
altogether.’’ 

“You think they are in danger there?’’ 
asked Father Tom, anxiously. 

“Oh, no! Thar’s plenty of other shelter. 
Killykinick is rock-ribbed to stand till 
the day of doom. But there’s another 
shore not so safe. George! I believe Last 
Island is going clean under!” 

[ 256 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Let her go!” came the keeper’s bluff 
response. “Been nothing but a bramble 
bed these twenty years.” 

“Bramble bed or not, some fools are 
camping there,” said Blake. “I’ve seen 
their dogs on the beach for the last three 
days; and there was a boat moored to 
the rocks this morning, and boys scram- 
bling along the shore. The folks that are 
boxed up in town all winter run wild 
when they break loose here, and don’t care 
where they go — ” 

“Hush!” broke in the keeper, suddenly. 
“Push open the glass there, men, and 
listen! I think I heard a gun!” 

They flung open the window at his 
word. Borne upon the wild sweep of the 
wind that rushed in upon them, there 
came again a sound they all knew, — 
the signal of distress, the sharp call for 
help. It was their business to hear and 
heed. 

“A gun sure, and from Last Island!” 
said the keeper, briefly. “There are fools 
there, as you say, Blake. Run out the 
lifeboat, my men! We must get them 
off. Both boats, for we don’t know how 
many we have to care for.” 

[ 257 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Both boats, sir?” hesitated Blake. 
“We’re short-handed to-day, for Ford has 
a crippled arm that would be no good in 
this surf.” 

“I’ll take his place,” said Father Tom, 
eagerly. “I’ve shot the rapids with my 
Indian guides many a time. I’ll take 
Ford’s place.” 

“Think twice of it, sir,” was Blake’s 
warning. “You are risking your life.” 

“ I know,” was the brief answer. “That’s 
my business as well as yours, my friends; 
so I’ll take my chance.” 

“There talks a man!” said the keeper, 
heartity. “Give him a sou’wester, and 
let him take his chances, as he asks, in 
Ford’s place.” 

And, in briefer time than we can picture, 
the two lifeboats were swung out of their 
shelter in the very teeth of the driving 
gale, and manned by their fearless crews, 
including Father Tom Rayburn, who, 
muffled in a huge sou’wester, took his 
place with the rest; and all pushed out 
into the storm. 

At Last Island all hope seemed gone. 

“One last shot, my boy!” daddy had 

[ 258 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


said, as the gun dropped from his shaking 
hand. “And no one has heard, — no one 
could hear in the roar of the storm.” 

“Oh, they could, — they could!” mur- 
mured Freddy. “God could make them 
hear, daddy, — make them hear and come 
to help ifs. And I think He will. I have 
prayed so hard that we might not be 
drowned here all alone in the storm. 
You pray, too, daddy, — oh, please pray!” 

“I can not, — I dare not,” was the 
hoarse answer. 

“O daddy, yes you can, — you must! 
The waters are coming on us so fast, 
daddy, — so fast! Please try to pray with 
me. Our Lord made the winds and 
waves go down when He lived here on 
earth; He walked on the waters and they 
did not hurt Him. Oh, they are coming 
higher and higher on us, daddy! What 
shall we do?” 

“Die,” was the hoarse, fierce answer, — 
“die here together, my boy, — my little 
boy! For me it is justice, judgment; 
but, O my God, why should Thy curse 
fall on my boy, — my innocent boy?” 

“O daddy, no! That isn’t the way to 
pray. You mustn’t say ‘curse,’ daddy. 

1 259 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


You must say: ‘ Have mercy, dear Lord, — 
have mercy! Save me and my little boy. 
Send some one to help us.’ Oh, I am 
trying not to be afraid, but I can’t help 
it, daddy!” 

“My boy, — my poor little boy! Climb, 
Freddy! Try to climb up on the roof — 
the broken shaft! Leave me here, and try 
to climb, my boy! You may be safe for 
a while.” 

“O daddy, no, I can’t climb and leave 
you,” and Freddy clung piteously to his 
father’s breast. “I’d rather die here with 
you, and God will take us both to heaven 
together. I haven’t been a very good boy, 
I know; and maybe you haven’t either; 
but if we are sorry He will let us come to 
Him in heaven — O dad, what is that?” 
Freddy’s low tone changed to one of wild 
alarm. “What is it now, — what is it now? ” 

For the dogs, that had been crouching 
and cowering beside their master, suddenly 
started up, barking wildly, and dashed 
out into the rising waters; new sounds 
blended with the roar of the storm, — 
shouts, cries, voices. 

“Here, — here!'' daddy feebly essayed to 
answer. “Call to them, Freddy! It is help. 

[ 260 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


God has heard your prayers. Call — call — 
call — loud as you can, my boy!" 

But there was no need. Rex and Roy 
had already done the calling, the guiding. 
On they came, the sturdy rescuers, plung- 
ing waist-deep through the waters that 
were already breaking high on the beach 
and bramble growth, surging and swelling 
across the broken wall that had once 
guarded the Old Light, and lapping the 
low cabin floor. On the brave life-savers 
came, while Rex and Roy barked in mad 
welcome; and Freddy’s clear, boyish cry, 
“Here, — here! Daddy and I are here!" 
pierced through the darkness and tar moil 
of the storm. On they came, strong and 
fearless,^ — God’s angels surely, thought 
Freddy, though in strange mortal guise. 
And one, whose muffling sou’wester had 
been flung loose in his eager haste, led all 
the rest. 

“Here, my men, — here!” he cried, 
bursting into the ruined hut, where a 
little figure stood, white-faced, breathless, 
bewildered with the joy of his answered 
prayer. “They are here! God have 
mercy!" broke in reverent awe from his 
lips. “Freddy, Freddy, — my own little 
Freddy here!" [261] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Uncle Tom, — Uncle Tom!” And 
Freddy sobbed outright as he was clasped 
in those dear, strong arms, held tight 
to the loving heart. “How did God tell 
you where to come for me, dear Uncle 
Tom? — Daddy, daddy, look up, — look up! 
It’s Uncle Tom!” 

And what daddy felt as he looked up 
into that old friend’s face, what Uncle 
Tom felt as he looked down on the “dere- 
lict” that had drifted so far from him, no 
one can say; for there was no time for 
words or wonderment. Life-savers can 
not stop to think, much less to talk. 
Daddy was caught up by two or three big 
fellows, without any question, while Uncle 
Tom looked out for Freddy. 

It was a fierce struggle, through surging 
waves and battering wind and beating 
rain, to the waiting lifeboats; but, held 
tight in those strong arms, pressed close 
to the true heart whose every pulse was a 
prayer, Freddy felt no fear. Even when 
the stout boat, fighting its way back to 
the other shore, tossed like a cork in the 
breakers, when the oar snapped in Blake’s 
hand, when all around was foam and 
spray, in which earth and heaven seemed 
[ 262 ] 


KILLYKINICK 

lost, Freddy, nestling in Uncle Toni’s 
sou’wester, felt as if its rough, tarry folds 
were angel wings. 

And so safety and shelter were reached 
at last. Father Tom gave his little 
drenched, shivering, white-faced boy into 
Ford’s friendly care. 

“Put him to bed somewhere, to get 
dry and warm.’’ 

“But daddy, — my own dear, lost 
daddy? — 

“Leave him to me, my boy,’’ said Uncle 
Tom, softly. “I’ll take care of daddy. 
Leave him to me.’’ 

And then Ford, who, somewhere back 
of Cape Cod, had a small boy of his own, 
proceeded to do his rough best for the 
little stranger. Freddy was dried, rubbed, 
and put into a flannel shirt some ten 
sizes too big for him, and given something 
hot and spicy to drink, and finally tumbled 
into a bunk with coarse but spotless 
sheets, and very rough but comfortable 
blankets, where in less than four minutes 
he was sound asleep, worn out, as even 
the pluckiest eleven-year old boy would 
be, with the strain on his small body and 
brave young soul. 

[ 263 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


How long he slept, Freddy did not know; 
but it was long enough for the wind to 
lull, the skies to brighten, the black clouds 
to break and scatter before the golden 
glory of the summer sun. The wide 
lookout window had been thrown open, 
and showed a glorious rainbow spanning 
the western sky. And there, on a pallet 
thrown hastily on the floor, lay daddy, 
very still and pale, with Uncle Tom 
kneeling beside him, holding his hand. 
An icy fear now clutched Freddy’s heart 
at the sight. Reckless of the ten-sizes- 
too-big shirt trailing around him, he was 
out of his bunk with a jump to his father’s 
side. 

“Daddy, daddy! — O Uncle Tom, is 
daddy dead?’’ 

And daddy’s eyes opened at the words, — 
eyes that were no longer burning, but soft 
and dim with tears. 

“Not dead, little Boy Blue! Daddy is 
alive again,— alive as he has not been for 
long, long years. — Tell him all, Tom. I 
am too weak. Tell him all. He’ll be glad 
to hear it. I know.’’ 

But Father Tom only put his arm 
around the boy and drew him close to 
his side. [ 264 ] 


KILLY KIN ICK 


“Why should I?” he said, smiling into 
the upturned face. “We know quite 
enough for a little boy; don’t we, 
Freddy, — that, like another wanderer 
from his Father’s house, daddy was dead 
and is alive again, was lost and is found. 
And now get into some short clothes, if 
you can find them, and we’ll go over to 
Killykinick in my little motor boat; for 
poor Brother Bart is in sad terror about 
you, I am sure.’’ 

Ah, in sad terror, indeed! It was a 
pale, shaken old man that stood on the 
beach at Killykinick, looking over the 
sea, and listening to the Captain, who 
was striving to find hope where he felt 
there was none. 

“Looks as if the old cabin on Last 
Island might be holding together still. 
Dan and Neb are knocking a raft together, 
and if they can make it float they’ll go 
over there and get the little lad off. And 
if they don’t. Padre’’ (the rough old 
voice trembled), — ^“if they don’t, wal, 
you are sky pilot enough to know that 
the little chap has reached a better shore 
than this.” 

“Aye, aye, I know, Jeroboam!” was the 

[ 265 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


hoarse, shaken answer. “ God knows what 
is best for His little lamb. His holy will 
be done. But, O my laddie, my little 
laddie, why did I let you go from me into 
the darkness and storm, my little boy, 
my little boy?” 

“Hooray! Hooray!” Wild shouts broke 
in upon the broken-hearted prayer, as 
Jim and Dud and Dan burst round the 
bend of the rocks. “Brother Bart, 
Brother Bart! Look what’s coming, 
Brother Bart!” 

And, turning his dim eyes where the 
boys pointed. Brother Bart saw a little 
motor boat making its swift way over the 
still swelling waves. On it came, dancing 
in the sunlight arched by the rainbow, 
tossing and swaying to the pulse of the 
sea; and in the stern, enthusiasticalh' 
waving the little signal flag that Ford 
had put into his hand to remember the 
life-savers, sat— 

“Laddie!” burst from Brother Bart’s 
lips, and he fell upon his knees in thanks- 
giving. “O God be. praised and blessed 
for the sight! My laddie, — my own 
little laddie safe, safe, — my laddie coming 
back to me again!” 

[ 266 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


XXIII.^ — ^Dan’s Medal. 

It was the day after the big storm that had 
made havoc even in the sheltered harbor 
of Beach Cliff, and' so damaged “The 
Polly” in her safe moorings that six men 
were busy putting her into shipshape 
again. And dad’s other Polly was in an 
equally doleful mood. 

It was to have been a day of jollification 
with Marraine. They were to have gone 
voyaging together over the summer seas, 
that were smiling as joyously to-day as if 
they had never known a storm. They 
were to hav^ stopped at the college camp 
in Shelter Cove, where Marraine had some 
girl friends; they were to have kept on 
their sunlit way to Killykinick, for so dad 
had agreed; they were to have looked in 
on the Life-Saving Station, which Mar- 
raine had never . seen ; in fact, they were 
to have done more pleasant things than 
Polly could count, — and now the storm 
had fallen on her namesake and spoiled all. 

“Never mind, Pollykins!” comforted 
Marraine, wLo could find stars in the 
[ 267 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


darkest sky. “We’ll each take a dollar 
and go shopping.’’ 

“Only a dollar, Marraine? That won’t 
buy much,’’ said Polly, who had walked in 
ways where dollars seem very smaU indeed. 

“Oh, yes, it will! There’s no telling 
what it can buy in Jonah’s junk shop,’’ 
laughed Marraine. “I got a rusted tea 
tray that polished into silver plate, a 
blackened vase that rubbed into burnished 
copper. I should not wonder if he had an 
Aladdin’s lamp hidden somewhere in his 
dusty shelve.’’ 

“Let us go look for it,’’ said Polly, 
roused into gleeful interest. “Oh, I’d 
love to have Aladdin’s lamp! Wouldn’t 
you, Marraine?’’ ^ 

“What would you wish for, Pollykins?’’ 
asked Marraine, softly. 

“Oh, lots of things!’’ said Polly, perch- 
ing in her lap. “First — first of all, I 
wish that I could keep you here forever 
and forever, darling Marraine!’’ 

“Well, you have me for six weeks every 
summer,” laughed Marraine. 

“But that isn’t forever and forever,” 
sighed Polly. “And mamma and dad and 
grandmamma and everybody else want 
you, too.” [ 268 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“Are you sure of that?” asked the lady, 
kissing the upturned face. 

“Oh, very sure!” replied Polly, posi- 
tively. “They say it’s all nonsense for 
you to go to the hospital and take care 
of sick people. It’s — it’s something — I 
don’t remember what.” 

“Stubborn pride?” suggested Marraine, 
with a merry sparkle in her eyes. 

“Yes,” said Polly, “that’s just what 
.grandmamma said. And stubborn pride 
is something bad; isn’t it, Marraine?” 

“Well, yes, it is,” agreed Marraine, — 
“when it is stubborn pride, Pollykins. 
But when one has empty hands and 
empty purse and: — well, an empty life, 
too, Pollykins, it is not stubborn pride 
to try to fill them with work and care 
and pity and help.” 

“And that is what you do at the hos- 
pital, Marraine?” 

“ It is what I try to do, Pollykins. When 
my dear father died, and I found all 
his money gone, this beautiful home of 
yours opened its doors wdde for me; dad, 
mamma, grandma, everybody begged me 
to come here. But — but it wasn’t my real 
home or my real place.” 

[ 269 ] 

18 


KILLYKINICK 


“Oh, wasn’t it, Marraine?’’ said Polly,, 
sadly. 

“No, dear. In our real home, our real 
place, God gives us work to do, — some 
work, even though it be only to bless 
and love. But there was no work for me 
here; and so I looked around, Pollykins, 
for my work and my place. If I had been 
very, very good, I might have folded my 
butterfly wings under a veil and habit, and 
been a nice little iiun, like Sister Claudine.’’ 

“Oh, I wouldn’t have liked that at all!” 
said Polly, with a shiver. 

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t either,” was the 
laughing answer. “Still, it’s a lovely, 
useful, beautiful life, little girl. And the 
next — the very next — best place and best 
work seemed to me the hospital, with 
the white gown and cap I can put oil 
when I please; with sickness and sorrow 
and suffering to soothe and help; with 
little children holding out their arms to 
me, and old people calling to me in their 
pain, and dying eyes turning to me for 
hope and help. So I am nurse in a hospital, 
and out of it, too, when there is need. 
And it’s not for stubborn pride, as grandma 
says, and ao doubt thinks; but because 
[ 270 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


I believe it to be my real work and my 
real place. Now get your dollar, and 
we’ll be off to Jonah’s junk shop to look 
for Aladdin’s lamp.” 

And Polly danced off for her flower- 
wreathed hat, and the two were soon on 
their way down the narrow streets to the 
dull, dingy little shop near the water,, 
where several customers were already 
looking over the curiously assorted stock, 
that on weekdays was spread far out on 
the sidewalk to attract passers-by. Among 
these was a big, burly grey-haired man, 
whose bronzed face and easy-fitting 
clothes proclaimed the sailor. 

“Why, Captain Carleton!” greeted Miss 
Stella, in some surprise. 

“God bless my heart and soul!” was 
the hearty response, and the Captain held 
out both hands to the speaker. “This is 
sailor’s luck, indeed! From what star of 
hope did you drop. Miss Stella?” 

“Oh, I drop here for a holiday every 
summer!” she answered gaily. “I am 
glad to see you looking so well and strong 
again. Captain.” 

“Thanks to you, my dear lady! Under 
the great Master of life and death, thanks 

[271] 


KILLYKINICK 


to you! I was about as far on the rocks 
as an old craft could be without going 
to pieces entirely. How that soft little 
hand of yours steered me into safe water 
I’ll never forget, dear lady, — never forget. 
And I was a tough patient, too; wasn’t I?” 

“Well, you did say things sometimes 
that were not — prayers,” was the laughing 
answer. 

And, chatting on pleasantly of the 
Captain’s last winter in the hospital, they 
glanced over old Jonah’s stock until some- 
thing of interest caught the sailor’s eye. 

“By George! How in thunder did this 
get here?” 

“A find, — real find. Captain?” asked 
Miss Stella. “What is it?” 

“A medal,” he answered, — “a medal 
awarded for ‘Brave and faithful service 
•on the “Reina Maria” sixty years ago.’” 
(He was scanning the bronze disc as he 
spoke), — “‘Juan Farley.’ Good Xord! 
Yes, poor old Jack! I wonder how he 
lived and died? And what in Heaven’s 
name is his medal doing here?” 

“ Perhaps Jonah can tell you,” suggested 
Miss Stella ; while Polly, whose bright 
eyes were searching for Aladdin’s lamp, 
paused to listen. [ 272 ] 


KTLLYKINICK 


“That ar medal?” said Jonah in answer 
to the Captain’s questioning. “Let me 
think now! That ar medal — ticketed 
nineteen, isn’t it? — was left here by a 
youngster. Now, what in thunder was his 
name? I’ll have to look in my books to see.” 

And while he looked Captain Carleton 
explained his interest in his find. 

“You see, my father was master and 
half owner of the ‘Reina Maria,’ though 
she was Spanish built and manned. But, 
luckily. Jack Barley, a first-class sailor, 
was second mate. There was a mutiny 
aboard, and it woLild have been all up 
with my father and his chief officer il 
brave Jack had not smelled mischief in 
time, and put down the hatches on the 
scoundrels at the risk of his own life. 
Ship and cargo (it was a pretty valuable 
ship) were saved; and 'this medal, that 
bears the stamp of her then Spanish 
Majesty, was- Jack’s reward. My father 
always felt that he ought to have had 
something more; but the Spanish owners 
were close-fisted, so my old man had to 
content himself with helping Jack (who 
was a rather reckless sort of chap ashore) 
in his own way. He got him out of many 

[ 273 ] 


KtLLYKINICK 


a tight place on the strength of that 
medal; and he would have looked out 
for him until the last, but he shipped on 
an East Indian, and drifted out of our 
reach. And this medal was left here by 
a boy, you say, my man?” 

“Yes, sir” (Jonah had found his entry 
now), — “by a boy who said it was his: 
that it had been given him by an old 
sailor man who was dead; and he’d like 
to sell the medal now, for he wanted some 
money bad.” 

“Good!” said the old Captain, eagerly. 
“I’ll give him his price. “Who and where 
is the boy?” 

“His name is Dan Dolan and he lives 
at Killy kinick.” 

“Dan Dolan!” exclaimed Miss Stella. 

“Oh, does he mean my- -my Dan, 
Marraine?” chirp'ed Polly, breathlessly. 

“What! You know the ♦boy?” cried 
the old sailor, in amazement. “God bless 
me, — you!”' 

“Why, yes, we know him, — don’t we, 
Pollykins?” said Miss Stella. “But what 
he is doing with the medal we can’t say. 
We’re certain he has it rightfully and 
honestly; and as soon as ‘The Polly’ (my 

[ 274 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


cousin’s yacht — • can spread her broken 
wings, we are going to Killykinick. 
Suppose you come with us, and see the 
owner of the medal, and strike a bargain 
yourself?” 

“By George, I will, — I will! A sail 
with you. Miss Stella, is a temptation I 
can not resist. And I must have the medal. 
I must see the boy, and hear how he got it. 
I’ll buy it from him at his own price; and 
you shall negotiate the sale, dear lady!” 

“Take care,” said Miss Stella, with a 
merry sparkle in her eyes, — “take care 
how you do business with me. Captain! 
Remember how I drew upon you for the 
babies’ ward last winter! I can fleece 
without mercy, as you know.” 

“Fleece as you please,” was the hearty 
answer. ‘ ‘ I can stand . it, for that soft 
little hand of yours did work for this old 
man that he can never repay.” 

So the agreement was made; and Miss 
Stella, having invested in a queer, twisted 
candelstick, which she declared was quite 
equal to Aladdin’s lamp, and Polly having 
decided to reserve her dollar for a neighbor- 
ing candy store, the party at Jonah’s 
junk shop separated, with the promise of 

[ 275 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


meeting as soon as “The Polly” should 
be ready for flight to Killy kinick. 

But that pleasant excursion was in- 
definitely postponed; for when Miss Stella 
reached Polly’s home it was to find two 
priestly visitors awaiting her. One was 
an old friend, the present pastor of St. 
Mary’s Church, near the Foresters’ home; 
the other, tall, pale even through his 
bronze, anxious-eyed, she had never met. 

“Father Rayburn, Miss Allen.” was the 
pastor’s brief introduction. “We have 
come to throw ourselves on your mercy, 
my dear young lady. You are here for 
your summer holiday, I know; and 1 
hesitate to interrupt it. But Father 
Rayburn is in sore need of experienced 
service that you alone can give.” 

“You need a ntgrse?” asked Miss Stella. 

“Yes.” (It was Father Rayburn who 
answered.) “My brother — or perhaps I 
should say my brother-in-law, as that is 
reall}^ our relationship, — is lying very ill 
at Killykinick. While still prostrated with 
fever, he was exposed to the storm of 
yesterday, in which he nearly lost his life. 
Between the shock, the excitement of his 
rescue by the life-savers, he is very, very 
[ 276 1 


KILLYKINICK 


— too ill to be removed to a hospital; 
and he is at Killykinick with only boys, 
and men to care for him,” continued Father 
Rayburn. “The doctors tell me an 
experienced nurse is necessary, and we 
can find none willing to take so serious a. 
case in such a rude, remote place. But 
my good friend Father John seems to 
think that you would take pity on our 
great need.” 

“Oh, I will, — I will!” was the eager 
answer. “I already have friends at Killy- 
kinick among those fine boys from St. 
Andrew’s. My little goddaughter and 1 
were to make an excursion there to-day, 
but the storm disabled Mr. Forester’s, 
yacht. I am so glad to be of service to^ 
you. Father! I will get ready at once.” 

In spite of the joyful return of laddie 
yesterday, there was gloom this morning, 
at Killykinick. Daddy, who had been 
brought over at his own request from the 
Life-Saving Station, lay in the old Cap- 
tain’s room, which Brother Bart had re- 
signed to him, very, very sick indeed. 

“Sinking fast. I’m afraid,* the doctor 
said. “The fever has broken, but the 

[ 277 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


shock of yesterday’s danger and rescue 
has been too much for a man in his 
weakened state. Still there’s a chance 
for him, — a fighting chance. But it will 
take very careful and experienced nursing 
to pull him through.” 

So Father Tom had gone in search of 
a nurse, leaving Freddy and Brother 
Bart watching by the sick bed; while 
Dan, who as second mate was assisting 
his chief officers to right and repair the 
‘‘Sary Ann,” listened with a heavy heart 
to the old salt’s prognostications. 

“He won’t last the day out,” declared 
Captain Jeb. “Blue about the gills 
already! But, Lord, what could you expect, 
doused and drenched and shaken up like 
he was yesterday? It will be hard on the 
little chap, who was so glad to get his 
father back. It’s sort of a pity, ’cording 
to my notion, that, being adrift so long, 
he didn’t go down in deep-sea soundings, 
and not come ashore to break up like this.” 

”0 Captain leb, no, no!” Dan looked 
up from his hammering on the “Sary 
Ann” in quick protest against such false 
doctrine. “A man isn’t like a ship: he 
has a soul. And that’s the main thing, 
[278] 


KILLYKINICK 


after all. If you save your soul, it doesn’t 
make much difference about your body. 
And drifting ashore right here has saved 
the soul of Mr. Wirt (or Mr. Neville, as 
we must call him now) ; for he was lying 
over on Last Island, feeling that there 
was no hope for him in heaven or on 
earth. And then Freddy came to him, 
and Father Tom, and he turned to God 
for pardon and mercy; and now his dying 
is all right, — though I haven’t given him 
up yet,” concluded Dan, more cheerfully. 
“Poor little Freddy has been praying so 
hard all night, I feel he is going to be 
heard somehow. And I’ve seen Mick 
Mulligan, that had typhoid last summer, 
looking a great deal worse than Mr. 
Neville, and before Thanksgiving there 
wasn’t a boy on the hill he couldn’t throw. 
Here comes Father Tom back with — 
with — •” Dan dropped his hammer entirely, 
and stood up to stare in amazement at 
the little motor boat making its way to 
the broken wharf. “Jing! Jerusalem! 
if — -if it isn’t that pretty lady from Beach 
Cliff that Polly calls Marraine!” 


[ 279 1 


KILLYKINICK 


XXIV. — A Star in the Darkness. ' 

M A R R A I N E , — Polly’s Marraine, — Aunt 
Winnie’s old friend, — the lovely, silver- 
robed lady of the party who had stood by 
Dan in his trouble! — it was she, indeed, all 
dressed in white, with a pretty little cap on 
her soft, wavy hair, and her hands full of 
flowers. Miss Stella always made a first 
appearance at a patient’s bedside with 
flowers. She said they were a friendly 
introduction that never failed. 

“It’s the nurse woman they went for,” 
gasped Captain Jeb, as the new arrival 
proceeded to step from boat to wharf with 
a light grace that scarcely needed Father 
Tom’s assisting hand. “Well, I’ll be tee- 
totally jiggered! Who ever saw a nurse 
woman pretty as that?” 

But Dan did not hear. He had dropped 
nails, hammer, and all present interest in 
the recuperation of the “Sary Ann,” and 
was off down the beach to meet the 
fair visitor, whose coming he could not 
understand. 

“Danny,” she said, holding out her 
[ 280 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


empty hand to him, — “Miss Winnie’s 
Danny! — I told you I had friends here, 
Father Rayburn; and this is one that I 
expect to find my right-hand man. What 
a queer, quaint, wonderful place this 
Killykinick is! I am so glad you brought 
me here to help you!’’ 

Help them! Help them! Dan caught 
the words in breathless amazement. Then 
Miss Stella, Polly’s Marraine, was the 
nurse! It seemed altogether astounding; 
for sick nurses, in Dan’s experience, had 
always been fat old ladies w^ho had out- 
lived all other duties, and appeared only 
on important occasions, to gossip in 
solemn whispers, and to drink unlimited 
tea. And now Polly’s Marraine was a 
nurse! It was impossible to doubt the 
fact; for Father Tom was leading her 
straight to Mr. Neville’s side, Dan follow- 
ing in dumb bewilderment. 

The sick man lay in the old Captain’s 
room, whither, at his own request, the 
life-savers had borne him the previous 
evening. His eyes, deep-sunken in their 
sockets, were closed, his features rigid. 
Poor little Freddy, tearful and trembling, 
knelt by Brother Bart, who paused in his 
[281] 


KILLYKINICK 


murmured prayers to shake his head 
hopelessly at the newcomer’s approach. 

“I’m glad ye’re here before he goes 
entirely, Father. It’s time, I think, for 
the last blessing. I am afraid he can 
neither hear nor see.” 

But Miss Stella had stepped forward, 
put her soft hand on the patient’s pulse; 
and then, with a quick whisper to Father 
Tom, she had dropped her flowers, opened 
the little wrist-bag they had concealed, 
and proceeded to “do things,” — just what 
sort of things Dan did not know. He could 
only see the soft hands moving swiftly, 
deftly; baring the patient’s arm to the 
shoulder and flashing something sharp 
and shining into the pale flesh; holding 
the fluttering pulse until, with a long, 
deep sigh, the sick man opened his eyes 
and stared dully at the white-robed figure 
bending over him. 

“Who — what are you?” he said faintly. 

Miss Stella smiled. It was the question 
that many a patient, struggling out of 
the Dark Valley, had asked before, when 
his waking eyes had fallen upon her fair, 
sweet face, her white-robed form. 

“Only your nurse,” she answered 
[ 282 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


softly, — “your nurse who has come to 
help you, to take care of you. You feel 
better already?” 

“Yes, better, better!” was the faint 
reply. “My boy, — where is my boy? 
Freddy! Freddy!” He stretched out his 
feeble hand. But it was met by a firm, 
gentle grasp that was not Freddy’s. 

“No boys now,” said Miss Stella in the 
soft, steady voice of one used to such 
commands. “There must be no seeing, 
no talking, even no thinking, my patient. 
You must take this powder I am putting 
to your lips. Close your eyes again and 
go to sleep. — Now please everybody go 
away and leave him to me,” was the 
whispered ukase, that even Father Tom 
obeyed without protest ; and Miss Stella 
began her reign at Killy ki nick. 

It was a triumphant reign from the 
very first. Old and young fell at once 
under her gentle sway, and yielded to 
her command without dispute. The cabin 
of the “Lady Jane” was given over to 
her entirely; even Brother Bart taking 
to the upper deck; while a big, disused 
awning was stretched into a shelter for 
the morning and the noontime mess. 

[ 283 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


And, to say nothing of her patient — who 
lay, as Brother Bart expressed it, “like 
a shorn lamb” under her gentle bidding, 
gaining health and strength each day, — 
every creature in Killykinick was sub- 
servient to Miss Stella’s sweet will. Freddy 
was her devoted slave; lazy Jim, ready 
to move at her whisper; even Dud, after 
learning her father’s rank in the army, 
was ready to oblige her as a gentleman 
should. But it was Dan, as she had 
foreseen from the first, who was her right- 
hand man, ready to fetch and carry, to 
lift any burden, however heavy, by day 
and night; Dan who rowed or sailed or 
skimmed to any point in the motor boat 
Father Tom kept waiting at her demand; 
Dan who, when the patient grew better, 
and she had an hour or two off, was her 
willing and delighted escort over rocks or 
sea. 

And as they sailed or rowed or loitered 
by beach and shore. Miss Stella drew from 
Aunt Winnie’s boy the hopes and fears 
he could not altogether hide. She learned 
how Aunt Winnie was “pining” for her 
home and her boy; she read the letters, 
with their untold love and longing; she 
[ 284 1 


KILLYKINICK 


saw the look on the boyish face when Dan, 
too mindful of his promise to Father Mack 
to speak plainly, said he ‘reckoned she 
wouldn’t be here long if he didn’t get her 
somehow home.' She learned, too, all Dan 
could tell about poor old Nutty’s medal. 

“Get it for me the next time you go to 
town, Danny,” she said to him. And 
Danny drew it from old Jonah’s junk 
shop and put it in Miss Stella’s hand. 

And then, when at last her patient was 
able to sit up in Great-uncle Joe’s big 
chair in the cabin doorway and look out 
at the sea. Miss vStella wrote to dad and 
Polly to come and take her home. 

“Lord, but we’ll all miss her!” Captain 
Jeb voiced the general sentiment of Killy- 
kinick when this decision was made public. 
“I ain’t much sot on women folks when 
you’re in deep water, but +his one suttenly 
shone out like a star in the dark.” 

“And kept a-shining,” added Neb, — 
“ a-shining and a-smiling straight through.” 

“She’s a good girl,” said Brother Bart. 
“And I’m thinking — well, it doesn’t matter 
what I’m thinking. But it’s a lonely time 
laddie’s poor father will be having, after 
all his wild wanderings; and it will be 
[ 285 ] 


19 


KILLYKINICK 


hard for him to keep house and home. 
But the Lord is good. Maybe it was His 
hand that led Miss Stella here.” 

“Oh, what will we do when she is gone, 
daddy?” mourned Freddy. ‘‘Of course 
you are getting well now, and Dan and 
I can wait on you and get you broth and 
jelly; but it won’t be like having dear 
Miss Stella. Oh, I just love her! Don’t 
you, daddy? She is almost as good as a 
real mother.” 

And daddy’s pale cheek had flushed 
as he answered: 

“Almost, little Boy Blue!” 

‘‘Well, we’re all going home in a week,” 
said Dan, as he stood out under the stars 
that night. ‘‘But I’ll miss you sure. Miss 
Stella; for you don’t mind being friends 
with a rough sort of a boy like me, and 
you know Aunt Winnie; and if I give 
up and — and go down you’ll — ^ you’ll 
understand.” 

‘‘Give up and go down!” repeated Miss 
vStella. ‘‘You give up and go down, 
Danny? Never, — never! You’re the sort 
of boy to climb, however steep and rough 
and sharp the way, — to climb to the stars.” 

‘‘That’s what Aunt Winnie dreams,” 

[286] 


KILLYKINICK 


was the answer. “That’s what I dream^ 
too, sometimes, Miss Stella. But it 
isn’t for me to dream: I have to wake up 
and hustle. I can’t stay dreaming and 
let Aunt Winnie die. vSo if I have to 
give up and go down. Miss Stella, 3mu’ll — 
you’ll understand. 

And Miss Stella steadied her voice to 
answ^er : 

“Yes, Danny, I’ll understand.” 

But, in spite of this. Miss Stella’s 
parting from Killykinick was not alto- 
gether a sad one; for “The Polly” came 
down next morning, with flying colors, 
to bear her away. Dad was aboard; also 
Polly, jubilant at recovering her dear 
Marraine after three weeks of desertion; 
and Captain Carleton, and Miss Stella’s 
girl friends who had been picked up from 
the camp at Shelter Cove. It was such 
a picnic party altogether that sighs and 
tears seemed quite out of place; for, 
after all, things had turned out most' 
cheerfully, as everybody agreed. 

So, with “The Polly” glittering in new 
paint and gilding necessitated by the 
storm, with all her pennants flying in the 
wind, with the victrola singing its merriest 
[287] 


KILLYKINICK 


boat song, and snowy handkerchiefs flut- 
tering gay farewells, Miss Stella was borne 
triumphantly away. It was to be an all- 
day cruise. Great hampers, packed with 
everything good to eat and drink, were 
stored below; and “The Polly” spread 
her wings and took a wide flight to sea, 
turning back only when the shadows 
began to deepen over the water, and the 
.stars to peep from the violet sky. The 
young people were a trifle tired; Polly 
had fallen asleep on a pile of cushions, 
while the girls from Shelter Cove sang 
College songs. 

In the stern. Captain Carleton had 
found his way to Miss Stella’s side. She 
was leaning on the taffrail, listening to 
the singing, her white fleecy wrap falling 
around her like a cloud. 

“You look your name to-night,” said 
the Captain: “Stella, — a star. By George, 
you were a star to me when the sky looked 
pretty black! I was thinking of that 
yesterday when some Eastern chap came 
along with a lot of diam.onds for sale. 
I don’t know much about such folderols, 
'but there was one piece — a star — that 
I’d like to give to you, if you would take 
[ 288 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


it and wear it in remembrance of a rough 
old fellow who can’t speak all he feels.” 

“Ah, Captain Carleton, — Captain Carle- 
ton!” laughed the lady softly. “Take 
care! That Eastern chap was fooling you, 
I’m sure.” 

“Not at all, — not at all!” was the quick 
reply. “ I got an expert’s opinion. The star 
is worth the thousand dollars he asked.” 

“,A thousand dollars, — a thousand 
dollars!” repeated Miss Stella, in dismay. 
“And you would give me a thousand 
dollar star? Why, you must have money 
to burn, indeed!” 

“Well, I suppose I have,” was the 
answer, — “much more than a lonely old 
fellow of sixty odd, without chick or child, 
will ever need. Will you take the star, 
dear lady nurse?” 

“ No,” said Miss Stella, gently; “though 
I thank you for your generous thought of 
me, my good friend. But I have a better 
and a wiser investment for you. Have 
you forgotten this?” She took Dan’s 
medal from the bag on her wrist. 

“By George, I did forget it!” said 
the old man. “Somehow, it slipped my 
memory completely in our pleasant hurry. 

[ 289 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Poor Jack Farley’s medal! You’ve found 
the chap that owns it, you say?” 

“Yes,” was the answer, — “a brave, 
sturdy, honest little chap, who stood by 
your poor old friend in his last lonely 
days, and helped him in his last lonely 
cruise, and took the medal from his 
dying hands as the last and only legacy 
he had to give. Would you consider him 
Jack Farley’s heir. Captain Carleton?” 

“Most certainly I would,” was the 
rejoinder. 

“Then make him his heir, ’’she said softly. 

“Kh! — what? I don’t understand,” 
muttered the old gentleman. 

Then Miss Stella explained. It was such 
an explanation as only gentle speakers 
like Miss Stella can make. She told about 
bright, brave, plucky Dan and Aunt 
Winnie, of the scholarship at St. Andrew’s, 
and of the Little Sisters of the Poor. 
She told of the attic home over the Mulli- 
gans’ for which Aunt Winnie was “pining,” 
and of the dreams that Dan dreamed. 

“It would seem a pity,” Miss Stella 
said, “for him to, give up and go down.” 

“ By George, he must not, — he shall not!” 
said the old sailor. “You want me to do 


290 


KILLYKINICK 


something for him? Out with it, my lady ! " 

“Yes. I want you to invest, not in 
diamond stars. Captain, but in Jack 
Farley’s medal. I was to negotiate the; 
sale, you know.” 

“Yes, yes! And you warned me you 
were going to fleece me; so go on, — go 
on! What is the boy’s — what is your 
price?’’ asked the Captain. 

“A pension,’’ said Miss Stella, softly, — 
“the pension you would give Jack Farley 
if he were here to claim it, — just the little 
pension an old sailor would ask for his 
last watch below. It will hold the little 
nest under the eaves that Danny calls 
home for the old aunt that he loves; it 
will steady the young wings for their flight 
to the stars; it will keep the young heart 
brave and pure and warm as only love 
and home can.’’ 

“You’re right, — you’re right, — you’re 
always right, dear lady! If old Jack were 
here, I’d pension him, as you say, and 
fling in a little extra for his grog and his 
pipe. Old Jack could have counted on me 
for four or five hundred a year. But a 
sturdy, strapping young chap like yours 
is worth a dozen groggy old salts. So 


KILLYKINICK 


name your figure, my lady. I have money 
to burn, as you say. Name your figure, 
dear lady, and I’ll invest in your boy.” 

“Old Jack’s pension, then. Captain 
Carleton, — old Jack’s pension for Aunt 
Winnie and Dan, — old Jack’s pension, and 
nothing more.” 

“It’s theirs,” was the hearty answer, — 
“or, rather, it’s yours, my dear lady!” 

“Oh, no, no, no!” she disclaimed. “The 
generous gift is all your own, dear friend, — 
all your own. And it will be repaid. Dan 
and his good old aunt may have nd 
words to thank you, to bless you; but some 
day” (and the glad voice grew softer, 
sweeter), — “some day when life’s long 
voyage is over for you. Captain, and the 
log-book is open to the Master’s gaze — 

“Tt will be a tough showing,” inter- 
rupted the old man, gruffly, — “a tough 
showing through and through.” 

“Oh, no, no!” she said gently. “One 
entry, I am sure, will clear many a page, 
dear friend. One entry will give you safe 
anchorage — harbor rights ; for has not 
the Master Himself said, ‘As long as you 
did it to one of these My least brethren, 
you did it to Me’?” 

[ 292 ] 


KILLY KIN ICK 


XXV. — Going Home. 

“ We’re to be off to-morrow,” said Brother^ 
Bart, a little sadly. “And, though it will 
be a blessed thing to get back in the holy 
peace of St. Andrew’s, with the boys all safe 
and sound — which is a mercy I couldn’t 
expect, — to say nothing of laddie’s father 
being drawn out of his wanderings into 
the grace of God, I’m sore-hearted at 
leaving Killykinick. You’ve been very 
good to us, Jeroboam, — both you and 
your brother, who is a deal wiser than at 
first sight you’d think. You’ve been true, 
friends both in light and darkness; and 
may God reward you and bring you to 
the true faith ! That will be my prayer 
for you night and day. — And now you’re 
to pack up, boys, and get all your things 
together; for it’s Father Regan’s orders 
that we are to come back home.” 

“Where is our home, daddy?” asked 
Freddy, with lively interest. “For we can 
have a real true home now, can’t we?” 

“I hope so, my boy.” They were out 
on the smooth stretch of beach, where 

[ 293 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


daddy, growing strong and well fast, spent 
most of his time, stretched out in one of 
Great-uncle Joe’s cushiony chairs; while 
Roy and Rex crouched contentedly at 
his feet, or broke into wild frolic with 
Freddy on the rocks or in the sea. “I 
hope so; though I’m afraid I don’t know 
much about making a home, my little 
Boy Blue!” 

“Oh, don’t you, daddy?” said Freddy, 
ruefully. ”I have always wanted a home 
so much,— a real true home, with curtains 
and carpets, and pictures on the walls, 
and a real fire that snaps and blazes.” 

“Yes, I heard you say that before,” 
answered his father, sof ly. “I think it 
was that little talk on the boat that 
brought me down, where I could take a 
peep at my homeless little boy again ; 
though was afraid Captain Jeb would 
find me out if I ventured to Killykinick. 
I was just making up my mind to risk it 
and go over, when this fever < aught me.” 

“But why — were you hiding, daddy? 
Why did you stay away so long?” 

“Fife had grown very black for me. 
and I didn’t want to make it black for 
you, Freddy. I lost faith and hope and 

[ 294 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


love when I lost your mother. I couldn’t 
settle down to a bare, lonely life without 
her. I felt I must be free, — free to wander 
where I willed. It was all wrong, — all 
wrong, Freddy. But daddy was in dark- 
ness, without any guiding star. So I left 
you to Uncle Tom, gave up my name, my 
home, and broke loose like a ship without 
rudder or sail. And where it led me, 
where you found me, you know.” 

“Ah, yes!” Freddy laid his soft young 
cheek against his father’^. “It was all 
wrong. But now you have come back; 
and everything is right again. Uncle Tom 
says; and we’ll have a real home together. 
He said that, too, before he went away, — 
you and I would have a home, daddy.” 

“We’ll try,” replied daddy, cheerfully. 
“With you and the dogs together, Freddy, 
we’ll try. We’ll get the house and the 
cushions and the carpets, and do our best.” 

Going home! Dan was thinking of it, 
too, a little sadly, as somewhat later he 
stood on the stretch of rocks, looking out 
at the fading west. He was going home 
to “give up.” Only yesterday morning 
a brief scrawl from Pete Patterson had 
informed him he would be ready for 

[ 295 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


business next week, and Dan must come 
back with an answer — “Yes” or “No.” 
So it was good-bye to St. Andrew’s for 
Dan to-night; good-bye to all his hopes 
and dreams to-morrow. Something seemed 
to rise in Dan’s throat at the thought. 
To-morrow he must go back, a college 
boy no longer, but to P^te Patterson’s 
wagon and Pete Patterson’s shop. 

And while he stood there alone, watch- 
ing the deepening shadows gather over 
rock and reef and shoal where he had 
spent such happy days, there came a 
sudden burst of glad music over the 
waters, and around the bending shore of 
Killykinick came a fairy vision: “The 
Polly,” fluttering with gay pennants, 
jewelled in colored lights from sfem to 
stern; “The Polly,” laden with a crowd 
of merrymakers in most hilarious mood, 
coming on a farewell feast in charge 
of three white-capped and white-coated 
waiters; “The Polly,” that swept trium- 
phantly to the mended wharf (where the 
“Sary Ann” was slowly recuperating from 
her damages, in a fresh coat of paint and 
brand-new mainsail), and took undisputed 
possession of Killykinick. 

[ 296 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“I just had to come and say good-bye,” 
declared Miss Polly; “and dad said I 
could make a party of it, if Marraine 
would take us in charge. And so we’re 
here to have a real, real last good time.” 

Then all sat down on the moonlit sands; 
and the victrola played its gayest tunes, 
and the white-capped waiters served good 
things that quite equalled Polly’s last 
party. And when that was nearly over, 
and the guests were still snapping the 
French “kisses” and cracking sugar-shelled 
nuts, Dan found Miss Stella, who had 
been chatting with her late patient most 
of the evening, standing at his side. 
Perhaps it was the moonlight, but he 
thought he had never seen her look so 
lovely. Her eyes were like stars, and there 
was a soft rose-flush on her cheek, and the 
smile on her sweet lips seemed to kindle 
her whole face into radiance. 

“Come sit down on the rocks beside 
me, Danny, — Miss Winnie’s Danny. I’ve 
got some news for you.” 

“News for me?” Danny lifted his eyes; 
and Miss Stella saw that, in spite of all 
the fun and frolic around him, they looked 
strangely sad and dull. 

[ 297 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“You’re not having a good time to-night, 
are you?’’ she asked softly. 

“Yes, I am, — or at least I’m trying,’’ 
said Dan, stoutly. “It was surely nice 
of you all to give us this send off. But — 
but, you see, I can’t help feeling a little 
bad, because — because — ^’’ and he had to 
stop to dear the lump from his throat. 
“It seems to sort of end things for me.’’ 

“O Danny, Danny, no it doesn’t!” 
And now Miss Stella’s eyes were stars 
indeed. “It’s the beginning of things 
bright and beautiful for you.” 

And then, in sweet, trembling, joyful 
tones, she told him all, — told him of 
Captain Carleton and the medal; of the 
pension that was to be his and Aunt 
Winnie’s; of the kind, strong hand that 
had been stretched out to help him, that 
he might keep on without hindrance, — 
keep on his upward way. 

“To the stars, Danny” concluded the 
gentle speaker softly. “We must take 
the highest aim, even if we fail to reach 
it, — to the stars.” 

“ O Miss Stella, — dear, dear Miss Stella!” 
and the sob came surely now, in Dan’s 
bewildered joy, his gratitude, his relief. 
[ 298 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


“How good you are, — how good you ared 
Oh, I will try to deserve it all. Miss 
Stella! A home for Aunt Winnie, and 
St. Andrew’s, — St. Andrew's again!’’ And 
Dan sprang to his feet, and the college 
cry went ringing over the moonlit rocks. 
“It’s St. Andrew’s for Dan Dolan, now 
forever ! ’ ’ 

The rest of that evening seemed a 
bewildering dream to Dan, — more bewil- 
dering even than Miss Polly’s party. 
The story of his medal and his luck 
went flying around Killykinick, with most 
dazzling additions. Before the guests de- 
parted, Dan was a hero indeed, adopted 
by a millionaire whose life his father or 
uncle or somebody had saved from sharks 
and whales fifty or seventy -five years 
ago. 

“Oh, I’m so glad!’’ said Polly, as she 
shook hands for good-bye. “I always did 
say you were the nicest boy in the world. 
And now you needn’t ever be a newsboy 
or bootblack again, Dan.’’ 

“I’ll see you again before very long,’’ 
said Miss Stella, as he helped her on the 
boat, and she slipped a gold piece in his 
hand. “Here is the price of Jack Farley’s 

[ 299 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


medal. You must take Aunt Winnie 
home right away.” 

“Oh, I will, — will indeed!” said Dan 
joyfully. “She will be back in Mulligans’ 
as soon as I can get her there, you bet. 
Miss Stella!” 

“I’m durn sorry to see you go, matey!” 
said Captain Jeb next morning, as they 
pulled out the new sails of the “Sary Ann” 
for a start. “But whenever you want a 
whiff of salt air and a plunge in salt water, 
why, Killy kinick is here and your job 
of second mate open to you.” 

“Shake on that!” said Dan, gripping 
his old friend’s hand. “If I know myself. 
I’ll be down every summer.” 

“Looks as if I owed you something 
for all that fishing,” remarked old Neb, 
pulling out his leather wallet. 

“Not a cent!” said Dan, briskly. “I’m 
a monied man now. Neb, — a regular 
up-and-down plute. Keep the cash for 
some new nets next summer when we go 
fishing again.” 

And so, with friendly words and wishes 
from all, even from Dud, whom recent 
events had quite knocked out of his usual 
grandeur, the whole party bade adieu 

[ 300 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


to Killykinick. Freddy and his father 
were to remain a while at Beach Cliff 
with Father Tom, who was taking his 
holiday there. 

At Brother Bart’s request, the home 
journey was to be made as much as possible 
by rail, so after the “Sary Ann,” still a 
little stiff and creaky in the joints, had 
borne them to the steamboat, which in a 
few hours touched the mainland and made 
connections with the train, the travellers’ 
route lay along scenes very different from 
the rugged rocks and sands they had left. 
As they swept by golden harvest' fields 
and ripening orchards and vineyards, 
whose rich yield was purpling in the 
autumn sun, good Brother Bart heaved a 
sigh of deepest content. 

“Sure you may say what you please 
about water, Danny lad, but God’s 
blessing is on the good green land. If 
it be the Lord’s will. I’ll never leave it 
again ; though we might have found 
worse places than Killykinick and those 
good old men there, — may God lead them 
to the Light!” 

And as the Limited Express made its 
schedule time, Pete Patterson was just 

[ 301 1 


20 


KILLYKINICK 


closing up as usual at sundown, when a 
sturdy, brown-cheeked boy burst into 
his store, — a boy that it took Pete’s keen 
eyes full half a minute to recognize. 

“Dan Dolan!” he cried at last, — 
“Dan Dolan, grown and fattened and 
slicked up like — like a yearling heifer! 
Danny boy, I’m glad to see you, — I’m 
glad to see you, sure! You’ve come to 
take the job?” 

“No, I haven’t, — thank you all the 
same, Pete!” was the quick answer. “I’ve 
struck luck for sure,— luck with a fine old 
plute, who is ready to stake me for all 
I could earn here, and keep me at St. 
Andrew’s.” 

“Stake you for all you could earn here? 
echoed Pete, in amazement. 

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” said 
Dan, breathlessly. “Just now I’m dumb 
struck, Pete. I came flying back to take 
up my old quarters at the Mulligans’, 
and And the house shut up and everybody 
gone. Land! It did give me a turn, sure! 
I was counting on that little room upstairs, 
and all Aunt Winnie’s things she left 
there, and Tabby and the stove and the 
blue teapot. But they’re all gone.” And 
[ 302 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Dan sank down on a big packer’s box, 
feeling that he' was facing a dissolving 
world in which he had no place. 

“Oh, they’re not far!” said Pete, a 
little gruffly; for Dan’s tidings had been 
somewhat of a blow. “The old woman’s 
father died and left a little bit of money, 
and they bought a tidy little place out 
on Cedar Place, not far from St. Mary’s 
Church. You’ll find them there. You’ve 
made up your mind for good and all to 
stick to the high-brows? I’d make it 
worth your while to come here.” 

Dan rose from the packer’s box and 
looked around at the hams and shoulders 
and lard buckets and answered out of’ 
the fulness of his grateful heart: 

“Yes, I’ve made up my mind, Pete. 
It’s St. Andrew’s for me, — St. Andrew’s 
now and, I hope, forever. But — but if 
you want any help with writing or figuring'. 
I’ll come round Saturday nights and give 
you a lift; for I won’t be far. I’m sticking 
to old friends and the old camping ground . 
still.” 

And, with this cheery assurance, Dan 
was off again to find the vanished^ roof tree 
that had been all he ever knew of home. 

[ 303 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


He recalled the place. It was only a short 
walk from the college gate. Indeed, the 
row of cedars that fronted the little 
whitewashed house had been once the 
boundary of the college grounds. There 
was a bit of a garden in front, and a 
porch with late roses climbing over it, 
and — and — 

Dan stood stock-still for a moment, — • 
then he flung open the little gate, and 
with a regular Sioux war-whoop dashed 
up the gravelled path; for there — there 
seated in Mrs. Mulligan’s best rocker, 
with Tabby curled up at her feet — was 
Aunt Winnie herself, drinking a cup of tea ! 


[ 304 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


XXVI . — Rainbows . 

“Danny!” cried Aunt Winnie, clutching^ 
her teacup with trembling hand. “God 
save us, it’s Danny himself!” 

“Nobody else,” said Dan, as he caught 
her in a bearish hug and kissed the withered 
cheek again and again. It looked paler 
than when he had left her, — paler and 
thinner; and there were hollows under the 
patient eyes. 

“But what are you doing here. Aunt 
Win?” he asked in amazement. 

“Just spending the day, Danny. Mrs. 
Mulligan sent Molly for me this morning. 
She wanted me to see her new place, and 
to tell her what was to be done with my 
bit of things. She is thinking of renting 
her rooms, and my things are in the 
way. They are fine rooms, with rosebud 
paper on the walls, and a porch looking 
out at the church beyant ; and she could 
be getting seven dollars a month for them. 
But she’s got the table and stove and 
beds, and all our old furniture that nobody 
would want; so I’ve told her to send 
them off to-morrow to sell for what they 

[ 305 ] 


KILLYKIXICK 


will bring. Sure” (and the old voice 
trembled) “we’ll never have any call for 
them again, Danny lad, — never again.” 

“Oh, we won’t?” said Danny, with 
another hug that came near doing for 
teacup completely. “Just take back your 
orders quick as you can. Aunt Winnie, 
I’m renting those rooms right now.” 

“Sure, Danny, — Danny boy, have ye 
come back with a fever on ye?” 

“Yes,” grinned Dan, — “regular gold 
fever. Aunt Winnie! Look at that!” He 
clapped the twenty dollar gold piece into 
Aunt Winnie’s trembling hand. “That’s 
for you. Aunt Winnie, — that’s to rent 
those pink-flowered rooms.” 

“Sure it’s mad the poor boy is entirely!” 
cried Aunt Winnie, as Mrs. Mulligan and 
Molly came hurrying out on the porch. 

“Do I look it?” asked Dan, laughing 
into their startled faces. 

“Ye don’t,” said Mrs. Mulligan. “But 
spake out plain, and don’t be bewildering 
the poor woman, Danny Dolan.” 

And then Danny spoke out as plain as 
his breathless eagerness would permit, and 
told the story of the “pension.” 

“ It will be thirty-five dollars a month, 
( 306 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Captain Carleton says; he’d have to 
throw in the five to poor old Nutty for 
grog and tobacco.” 

“Ah, God save us, — ^God save us!” was 
all Aunt Winnie could murmur, tearfully. 

“And I guess thirty-five dollars will 
run those rosebud rooms of yours pretty 
safe and slick; won’t they, Mrs. Mulli- 
gan? So put Aunt Winnie and me down 
as tenants right off.” 

‘‘I will, — I will!” answered Mrs. Mulli- 
gan, joyfully. ‘‘Sure my heart was like 
lead in my breast at the thought of giving 
up yer bit of things. Miss Winnie. But 
now, — now come along, Molly girl, and 
we’ll be fixing the rooms this minute. 
What’s the good of yer going back to 
the Sisters at all?” And Mrs. Mulligan 
put a motherly arm around Aunt Winnie’s 
trembling form. ‘‘Give her another cup 
of tea, Molly; for she’s all done up with 
joy at having her own home and her own 
boy again, thank God for that same!” 

And then, leaving dear Aunt Winnie 
to this good friend’s tender ministrations, 
Dan kept on his way to St. Andrew’s, 
taking a flying leap over the college wall 
to the sunset walk, where perhaps he 


307 


KILLYKINICK 


would find Father Mack saying his Office. 
He was not mistaken: his old friend was 
there, walking slowly under the arching 
trees. His face kindled into light as he 
stretched out a trembling hand. 

“I thought perhaps you would come 
here, my boy,” he said. “I was just 
thanking God, Danny. Brother Bart has 
told us the good news. It is all right, as 
I hoped and prayed, — all right, as I knew 
it would be, Danny. Now tell me, yourself, 
all about this wonderful blessing.” 

And again this father and son sat down 
upon the broken grave slab, and Danny 
told Father Mack all. 

“Ah, it is the good God’s hand!” the 
old priest said softly. ” But this is only the 
start, my son. The climb is still before you, 
— a climb that may lead over steeps sharp 
and rouch as the rocks of Killy kinick.” 

But the fading light seemed to aureole 
Father Mack’s silvery head as he spoke. 

“You will keep on and up, — on and up; 
for God is calling you, my son, — calling 
you to heights where He leads His own, — 
heights which as yet you can not see.” 

The speaker laid his hand upon Dan’s 
head in benediction that thrilled the boy’s 
[ 308 1 


KILLYKINICK 


heart to its deepest depths, — -a benediction 
that he never forgot; for it was Father 
Mack’s last. Only a few days later the 
college bell’s solemn note, sounding over 
the merry greetings of the gathering 
students, told that for the good old priest 
all the lessons of life were over. 

And Dan, clirhbing sturdily up the 
heights at his saintly guide’s bidding, has 
found the way, so far, smoothed and 
softened beyond his hopes by his summer 
at Killykinick. Even his stumbling-stone 
Dud was removed to another college, his 
father having been ordered to a Western 
post. With Jim and Freddy as his friends, 
all the “high-steppers,” old and young, 
of St. Andrew’s were ready to welcome 
him into rank and line. And, with Aunt 
Winnie as administratrix of Captain Carle- 
ton’s pension “there isn’t a dacinter- 
looking boy in the college,” as Mrs. 
Mulligan stoutly declares. 

How Aunt Winnie stretched out that 
pension only the Irish fairies, or perhaps 
the Irish angels, know. The little pink- 
flowered rooms have blossomed out into 
a very bower of comfort and cheer. There 
are frilly curtains at the windows, a rosy- 

[ 309 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


hued lamp, and a stand of growing plants 
always in bloom. There are always bread 
and cheese and apple sauce, or something 
equally “filling,” for hungry boys to eat. 

And 'when Aunt Winnie was fairly 
settled, who should appear but Miss 
vStella, who had come to nurse a dear 
old friend near by, — Miss Stella, who 
dropped in most naturally in her off hours 
to chat with dear old Aunt Winnie and 
take a cup of tea! And Freddy’s daddy, 
who had plunged into life and law business 
with zest, often brought his big auto- 
mobile round to take Freddy for a spin 
after study hours, and called on the w'ay 
very frequently to take Miss Stella home. 

It was on one of those bright afternoons 
that they all went to look at the new 
house that was going up on a wooded 
hillside not very far from the college, — 
the house that was to be Freddy’^s long- 
wished-for home. It had been a lot of 
fun watching it grow. Now it was nearly 
done, — the big pillared porch ready for its 
climbing roses; the pretty rooms waiting 
their rugs and curtains; the great stone 
chimney, that was to be the heart and life 
of things, rising in the center of all. 

[ 310 1 


KILLYKINICK 


“My! but this is fine!” said Freddy, 
who had not seen this erowning touch 
before. “Let’s light it up, daddy, — let’s 
light it up and see how it burns.’’ 

And, dashing out for an armful of wood 
left by the builders, Freddy soon had a 
glorious blaze on the new hearth-stone, — 
a blaze that, blending with the sunset 
streaming through the west windows, made 
things bright indeed. 

“This is great!’’ said Freddy. “And when 
we have the chairs and tables and cushions 
and curtains — ^who is going to pick out the 
cushions and curtains, dad?’’ 

“Oh, I suppose we can have them sent 
up from the store!” answered dad, antici- 
pating such matters by pushing up a big 
packing box to the fire, to serve as a 
seat for their smiling guest. 

“Oh, can’t you do it, daddy?” 

“George! no! I wouldn’t know a curtain 
from a rug, my boy!” 

“ And you don’t know about dishes or cups, 
or pans to make gingerbread?” continded 
Freddy, the glow fading from his face as he 
realized all these masculine disabilities. 

“Not a thing,” was dad’s reply. 

“Gee!” said Freddy, in a much troubled 


KILLYKINICK 


voice. “We’ll be right bad off for a real 
home, after all, daddy.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps we can find a nice old black 
mammy who will take care of us all,” 
observed daddy, his eyes twinkling almost 
as they used to twinkle in the days of 
kittle Boy Blue. 

“Yes, I suppose we can,” said Freddy, 
with a wistful little sigh, “I suppose that 
is what we will have to do, daddy. But 
I wish — it’s going to be such a pretty house 
every other way, — I wish we could have 
a pretty lady to sit at the head of the 
table and pour our tea.” 

“Would I do, Freddy?” asked Miss 
Stella, stealing a soft little hand into his. 

“You, Miss Stella, — you, — youf gasped 
Freddy. “Oh, that would be rip-roaring, 
sure enough! But you couldn’t, — you 
wouldn’t! ” 

“I might,” was the low answer; and 
Miss Stella arose and drew little Boy Blue 
to her loving heart. “I might come if 
you want me very much, Freddy, — so I 
promised daddy last night.” 

“For there is no real right home without 
a mother, son,” said daddy; and his arm 
went around to meet Miss Stella’s until 
[ 312 ] 


KILLYKINICK 


Freddy was locked in their double clasp. 
And, looking from one glad face to the 
other, a thousand rainbows seemed to 
burst upon his troubled sky, and little 
Boy Blue understood. 

So there was a wedding in the little 
church at Beach Cliff when the hydrangeas 
were in bloom the next summer, — a 
wedding that drew the Forester clan from 
far and near. Even the two grandmothers, 
after they had inspected the Neville 
family tree through their lorgnettes, de- 
clared their satisfaction that Stella was 
going to do the proper thing at last. 

Daddy was the daddy of old times, 
before the dark clouds of doubt and 
despair had gathered around him and he 
had drifted about, the derelict Mr. Wirt; 
while Miss Stella, veiled in soft mists of 
tulle, looked what she had been to him, 
what she would ever be to him— his 
guiding star. Polly, who was the only 
bridesmaid (for so Marraine would have 
it), carried a basket of flowers as big 
as herself; Father Tom said the Nuptial 
Mass; and Freddy stood at daddy’s side, 
the very happiest of “best men.’’ And 
Dan who was off on his summer vacation 

[ 313 1 


KILLYKINICK 


at Killykinick, came down in the “Sary 
Ann,” with Captain Jeb slicked up for 
the occasion in real “store clothes.” And 
there was a wonderful wedding feast at 
the Forester home, with a cake three 
stories high, and three tables full of 
wedding presents; Captain Carleton’s 
diamond star, that he would send, shining 
with dazzling light among the rest. 

And, then, such a house-warming fol- 
lowed as surpassed Freddy’s wildest dreams 
with a real fire leaping on the hearth, 
with the rugs and curtains and cushions 
just right; for Miss Stella (or Marraine 
as she chose that Freddy should call 
her, — for, as she said, “Your own dear 
mother is in heaven, my boy”), — Miss 
Stella had picked them all but herself. 
And Father Tom beamed happily on his re- 
constructed family; and the Fathers and 
Brothers and boys from St. Andrew’s drop- 
ped in without ceremony; for Marraine had 
welcome for all, now that she was a fixed 
star in her real home and her real place. 

Though dear Aunt Winnie has dropped 
at least ten years of her life, and old Neb’s 
whale oil has done more for her rheumatism 
than all the store medicines she ever tried ;. 

[ 314 ] 


KILLY KIN ICK 


though more joy and comfort has come 
into these sunset years than she ever 
dared hope, she still sits on her little 
porch in the evening, with a look in her 
old eyes that tells she is dreaming. 

“What do you see, Aunt Win?” asked 
Dan one evening, as, after a tough pull 
up the Hill of Knowledge, he bounded up 
the Mulligan stairs to drop at her feet 
and lay his head in her lap. 

“Sure it’s not for an old woman to spake, - . 
Danny dear!” she answered again as of old. 
“It’s too great, too high. What was it that 
holy saint. Father Mack, said to you,' 
alanna? Sometimes I forget the words.” 

“That it would be a hard climb for 
me against winds and storms,” said Dan. 
“And, golly, it will! I am finding that 
out myself. Aunt Win.” 

“Go on, lad! There was more, — there 
was more,” said the old woman, eagerly. 

After a moment’s pause, Dan added, in 
a voice that had grown low and reverent: 

“That God was calling me to His own. 
And, Aunt Win, — Aunt Win” (there was 
a new light in the blue eyes uplifted to 
her face), “I am finding that out, too.” 

But it is a long way to the starlit 


KILLYKINICK 


heights of Aunt Winnie’s dream, — a long, 
hard way, as Danny knows. We leave 
him climbing sturdily on over its rocky 
steeps and sandy stretches, but finding 
many a sunlit resting place on the way. 
Brightest of all these to Danny is Killy- 
kinick, where he goes every summer to 
spend a happy holiday, — to boat, to 
swim, to fish, to be “matey” again with 
the two old men, who look for his coming 
as the joy of the year. 

“It’s hurrah! hurrah. Aunt Win!” he 
wrote jubilantly one glad summer day. 
“Your Danny is at work before time, 
doing a little missionary business already. 
Two real true converts. Aunt Win, — 
baptized yesterday! It was the ‘Padre’s 
preaching’ that set Jeb thinking first, and 
then he got hold of some of Great-uncle 
Joe’s books. I sort of took a hand, and 
altogether we’ve got the dear old chaps 
into the fold. Peter and Andrew, — they 
chose the names themselves, even good old 
Neb’s dull wits seeming to wake at his 
Master’s call. Brother Bart’s prayers for 
his old friends have been answered. The 
Light is shining on Killykinick, Aunt 
Win, — the Light is shining on Killykinick ! ” 
[316] 





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